Peachtree Parade

92

DATE DUE

PEACHTREE
PARADE

PEACHTREE PARADE

By ERNEST ROGERS
Illustrated by Lou Erickson

"On Peachtree Street there's life and
joy," Ernie Rogers once wrote of the
main artery of his Atlanta home, and
here he writes with equal enthusiasm
about the personalities and events that
have given Atlanta its unique color and
flavor.

A beloved Atlanta citizen and a staff
member of The Atlanta Journal for more
than thirty-five years, Ernie Rogers has
been on hand to observe the antics of
newspapermen whose names will be
long remembered in the annals of
Southern journalism Ward Greene,
Erskine Caldwell, Angus Perkerson,
Ward Morehouse, Ed Bradley, John
Paschall, and Harllee Branch, just to
mention a few. These men worked stren-
uously for the Journal, but they seem to
have had ample time for horseplay, and
Ernie Rogers's accounts of their lighter
moments are delightful reading

Also by Ernest Rogers

THE OLD HOKUM BUCKET

TREE

PARADE

By ERNEST ROGERS

Illustrated by Lou Erickson

TUPPER AND LOVE, INC.

Atlanta

COPYKIGHT 1956 BY ERNEST ROGERS

All rights reserved, including the right to repro-
duce this book, or parts thereof, in any form, except
for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.

MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
VAN REES PRESS NEW YORK

To

the men and women of
The Atlanta Journal staff-
past, present, and future
this volume is dedicated
with affection.

Contents

INTRODUCTION, by James Saxon Childers k

UP AND DOWN PEACHTREE 3

COVERING DIXIE LIKE THE DEW 14

REWRITES AND GENERAL ASSIGNMENTS 39

THE FATE OF LEO M. FRANK 64

"THE VOICE OF THE SOUTH" 73

DEFYING THE DEMON 91

A FRIEND OF THE EMPEROR 106

No BUSINESS LIKE SHOW BUSINESS 123

DELICIOUS AND REFRESHING 161

Gone with the Wind 175

Y'ALL COME 197

A GUY NAMED JOE 209

GIVE MY REGARDS TO PEACHTREE 216

Introduction

By James Saxon Childers

ERNIE ROGERS HAS WRITTEN THIS BOOK ABOUT ms YEABS ON
Peachtree Street. It concerns his experiences rather than him-
self. I believe you would enjoy the book more if you knew
him better. So, I asked the Readers Digest to let me reprint
an article I wrote about him. The editors agreed, and here is
the article* :

Ernie Rogers writes a daily column for the Atknta Journal.
He has never written an ungenerous or envious line about
anybody, so far as I know, and I'm the editor of that paper.
Yet Ernie might easily envy others, as he watches them run
and walk, because for some 50 years he has had to use
crutches.

People in Atlanta call him "The Mayor of Peachtree Street"
and they grin as they say it. Everybody knows Ernie, every-
body greets him. As he swings along, peering out from under
his ancient hat, he lifts his hand from a crutch to wave to
friends. It takes Ernie a long time to cover a block on
Atlanta's most famous street, because people stop him and
talk to him. Some of them have a joke to tell; some have news
for his column; others have a hard-luck story for a man who is
willing to listen and is never in a hurry. Ernie is the most
beloved man in Atlanta.

In 1899, when Ernie was two years old, he was stricken

* Copyright, 1956, by The Reader's Digest Association.

ix

X INTRODUCTION

with polio and became paralyzed in both arms and both legs.
His arms slowly recovered, but his right leg was permanently
useless and his left wasn't much better. They put braces on
him so heavy he could hardly drag them. Finally they gave
up and handed him his first pair of crutches.

Ernie spent hours in a little gymnasium that his father
built in the back yard. Ernie worked on the horizontal bar
and the trapeze. If he couldn't walk on his feet he would
learn to walk on his hands better than any boy in the neigh-
borhood. He practiced until he could walk around the yard
and climb stairs on his hands. He developed powerful arms
and shoulders.

One day a boy called Ernie "Crip." Ernie whipped him,
and soon the kids began calling him "Red/' an honorable
nickname.

Later on, Ernie heard that the boys in his neighborhood
were planning to climb Stone Mountain, almost 1000 feet
high and solid granite. Ernie wasn't invited to go along, but
he went. On the climb up he wore the rubber tips off his
crutches. Coming down, with only the metal ends to hold
him, he slipped and sometimes fell; but no one offered help.
Even youngsters finally recognized pride and fortitude.

More than all else, Ernie wanted to be like the other boys
and to participate in all they did. The athletic teams were
denied him, but he became the scorekeeper for every game
in high school. Then he was elected cheerleader and, in wild
excitement about a winning touchdown, he jumped off a
platform and broke his knee. But it was the knee of his lame
leg and he didn't need it much and, disregarding the pain,
on his crutches he led the parade after the victory. It was
almost like being on the team and getting injured in the
game. He didn't seem so different from the others.

The big game of the season was coming up and Ernie
wanted a date. Lately he had been eying a little brown-haired

INTRODUCTION XI

girl, the prettiest in his neighborhood, and she agreed to go
with him. The day of the game, Ernie bought a flower and
blacked his shoes. Just as he was ready to leave, the telephone
rang; the brown-haired girl said she wasn't feeling well and
couldn't go to the game. Later Ernie learned the truth. She
didn't want to be seen at the game with a cripple.

Ernie cringed from the cut and he shut himself off from
even the boys. A feeling of inadequacy, nurtured with self-
pity, gave him a permanent sense of insecurity.

It was in this mood, bewildered and frustrated, that he
entered Emory University and was away from home for the
first time. He wandered the campus, lonely and miserable,
thinking only of himself and brooding with resentment at
his handicap. He dragged through the first six weeks, debat-
ing whether he should give up and go home. Then in sudden
defiance he determined to show the campus who was the
best man in the university. He would win all the honors.

He just about did. He was president of the student body,
of Sigma Alpha Epsilon fraternity, and secretary-treasurer
of Pan-Hellenic. He founded and edited the campus news-
paper. He was a member of the glee club. And he won a Phi
Beta Kappa key.

Yet something was lacking. He was top man on the campus
but somehow there was no contentment in it, and he turned
elsewhere for happiness. He did a little drinking. Not much,
just now and then.

Ernie had decided he wanted to be a newspaperman, so
after graduation he got a job on a country paper. Three
months later he moved up to the Atlanta Journal. The city
editor said: "Don't expect any special consideration because
you're on crutches." Ernie answered: "That's the way I want
it"

Soon people began to know him "th^t redheaded fellow

Xll INTRODUCTION

on crutches" and they gave him inside tips on news which
enabled him to scoop the competition.

Ernie was promoted, but he was increasingly sensitive and
refused to think of people as friendly and kind, believing
that they gave him news tips because of pity. He retreated
even deeper into himself. More often he turned to drinking.
This was the way it was for years, and Ernie's friends won-
dered about the outcome.

In addition to his newspaper work Ernie took part in a
radio program. It was successful but there was nothing
remarkable about it until, one Christmas in the early 1930*s,
he made a certain announcement. Nobody knows the cause
of that announcement, but somehow a lame man had turned
from self-pity and had begun thinking about other men men
who were lonely or broke, sick or lame.

Ernie announced the new program as "The Unorganized
Cheerful Givers/* and invited people to contribute to the
Christmas cheer of others. Thousands of dollars came in.
Whenever there was a lag in the giving, Ernie told a story,
or sang a song, or made his plea, and more contributions
poured in.

The program continued almost ten years. So many listeners
asked to hear him more often that he was appointed a news-
caster. His time was 7:15 A.M., but even at that hour he built
up an audience of millions of listeners. Ernie gave them more
than the news; he talked as if he knew the longings of every
man. Increasingly through his program there sounded a note
of victory. He talked of courage and self-respect.

Ernie Rogers had now put aside all thought of himself and
of his handicap. There was no more bitterness or fear. There
was a charming wife, a son, and all the people in the world,
especially the lonely, the sick, the lame. The bottle stood on
the shelf untouched and has remained untouched ever since.

Many of Ernie's columns are remembered, but perhaps his

INTRODUCTION ' xiil

best known was about Joe Kelley, a highschool teacher who
was stricken with paralysis. Ernie visited him in the hospital.
It was Christmastime and Ernie ended his column with the
suggestion that everybody write Joe Kelley a Christmas
card. He added a postscript: "Joe is hard up, so you might
put in a dollar bill with your card." They brought the mail
into Joe's room in baskets. People sent nearly $4000.

There have been many other men like Joe in Ernie's
columns, men who were worried and found a kind word,
men and women in trouble who received help.

Ernie writes at the Journal every morning. About 11:30 I
hear the plop of his crutches coming along the hall as he
brings me his copy. He is bald except for a thinning fringe of
sandy red hair. His grin is his most prominent feature. Today
he is a trifle paunchy and his love of good food is tracing a
third chin, but there is nothing heavy about his movements
as he swings across the room, pitches his copy on my desk
and sits down. He lifts his right leg across his left knee and
says, "What's the good news?"

The moment before I may have been bothered with a
dozen responsibilities; but somehow this smiling fellow across
the desk makes tension and worry seem foolish. Before I can
think of any good news Ernie is telling me a lot of it Some
of it is fact and some just his fancy on the loose usually one
of his tall stories but all of it is fun. It's never long, when
Ernie is talking, before visitors start dropping in.

Ernie's columns are sprinkled with atrocious puns and
verse, and stubborn support for lost causes. Yet he has a
quick hand to jerk the cloak off the hypocrite. At the end of
the column Ernie always sends best wishes to the people
whose birthday is that day.

A group of Atlanta men were talking about this around the
lunch table and somebody happened to say that Ernie
Rogers deserved some birthday greetings himself. So they

INTRODUCTION

planned a little party. The news got around and people began
asking if they could come. There was no organization behind
the event just hundreds of people who wanted to wish
Ernie a happy birthday.

Nobody asked anybody for anything, but when the hotel
heard whom the banquet was for they gave the hall for
nothing and the dinner below cost. A printer provided the
eight-page program and menu at no charge. Atlanta musi-
cians made up an orchestra and offered to play.

The charge was $5 a plate but people sent more than that;
they said, "We must give Ernie a present/' The plan at first
was to buy him a watch. Then it grew, and they looked at
the stack of checks and said: "Hell! Well buy him an auto-
mobile/'

George Biggers, president of the Journal, heard about it
and said: "If you lack any money toward that automobile
let me know; the paper will pick up the tab for whatever you
need."

The Journal didn't get to put in a penny. The people of
Atlanta, The Unorganized Cheerful Givers for Ernie Rogers,
bought him a Pontiac convertible. The dealer let them have
it for cost and added the swankiest trimmings he could get.

On the evening of Ernie's birthday his neighbors were
surprised when the patrol wagon came clanging up to Ernie's
home and the chief of police asked to see him.

The chief reached for his handcuffs. "Ernest Rogers, you're
under arrest!"

Ernie said, "If you put those things on me I can't walk."

"Ill carry you," the chief said. He clamped on the cuffs,
picked Ernie up and carried him to the wagon. Its siren at
full pitch, the wagon headed for town, Ernie huddled in the
back, yelling bloody murder as he beat the walls with the
handcuffs. As it turned into Peachtree Street the headlights

INTRODUCTION XV

of six motorcycles flashed on and a police escort opened the
way toward the heart of town.

The cavalcade drew up in front of the Dinkier-Plaza Hotel
and the chief opened the door of the wagon. Two burly
policemen formed a packsaddle and Ernie, handcuffed, his
lame leg dangling, rode into the banquet hall where 400 men
rose and yelled their greetings. Atlanta, that night, was try-
ing to say to a man what that man had been saying to the
city for so many years.

After the banquet was finished, one of Atlanta's best-
known lawyers, in white wig and black robe, took his place
on a judge's bench. The diners pushed back their chairs and
yelled and booed as Ernie, now grinning and happy, was
put in the prisoner's chair. The trial began, and Ernie Rogers
was charged with (1) impersonation, (2) creating disturb-
ances, and (3) stealing.

As witnesses they called his father, one of his former high-
school teachers, the president of Emory University, old radio
associates, newspaper friends, bankers and bellhops. They
took the stand and testified against Ernie Rogers as charged.

He was found guilty, by unanimous verdict of the jury
which was all the people in the room of "impersonating
various individuals, because you are so many wonderful
persons rolled up into one." Guilty of "creating disturbances,
because your friends like to crowd around wherever you
happen to be." Guilty of "stealing the hearts of thousands of
people."

They followed him to the front of the hotel where his wife
waited in the new car, and they lined the sidewalks and
blocked the street as they sang "Happy Birthday." They still
were singing as Mrs. Rogers drove away, heading for home,
a happy man beside her.

Ernie had walked far since that morning of the football
game when the little girl had failed to show up. He had left

XVI INTRODUCTION

behind the years of bitterness and resentment when two
crutches weren't enough and he had tried a third alcohol.
Ernie Rogers had walked away from all that. He had light-
ened his load by taking on the burdens of other men, and
had climbed to his present high position, the beloved Mayor
of Peachtree Street.

PEACHTREE
PARADE

Up and down Peachtree

WHEN YOU MENTION PEACBTTREE, YOXJ'KE SPEAKING OF THE
street I love.

It is Atlanta's most famous thoroughfare but there's hardly
a peach tree on it. (Four, to be exact.)

This old Indian trail that sprawls through the city's most
opulent business district and on out into one of its more solid
residential sections that has lost some of its smartness through
the years has felt the tread of an invader's feet. It was along
this writhing path that the men of Sherman pursued the re-
treating Confederates during the last agonizing days of the
Civil War. Over this highway licked the flames of conflict as

3

4 PEACHTKEE PARADE

Yankee arsonists put the torch to the growing railway center
in order to disrupt communications among the scattered
remnants of the men in gray.

Yet, of more recent memory, Peachtree has been trod by
the triumphant feet of Bobby Jones returning home after
scoring his immortal Grand Slam in 1930 to establish himself
as the greatest golfer of all time. Margaret Mitchell, Atlanta's
most famous author, died from injuries received when struck
down by an automobile on her beloved street yet the night
she pressed her feet to its tingling pavement en route to
Loew's Grand Theater and the world premiere of Gone with
the Wind was the climax of an unprecedented demonstration
in honor of a great book, a great motion picture, and a great
lady.

People who know about such things say there has never
been such a premiere as the GWTW affair and likely never
will be again. Big shots were a dime a dozen, and celebrities
were all over the place. Clark Gable . . . Vivien Leigh . . .
Olivia de Havilland . . . Claudette Colbert . . . they and many
more were on hand to add luster and glamour to the occasion.

But the next day Peachtree was the same unkempt,
friendly, aimless avenue as before.

Peachtree Street has its beginnings at the railroad tracks
just south of Atlanta's famous "Five Points," where Peachtree
traverses Marietta Street, Edgewood Avenue, and Decatur
Street to make the five points and fixes a geographical cen-
ter from which everything within the city limits is located.
It pursues a course wandering northerly for 15.7 miles as
business houses disappear and residences take over only to
be followed by more industrial sites as it dead-ends into the
Buford Highway. (It changes its name to Peachtree Road
and later to Peachtree Industrial Boulevard but it's still
Peachtree. )

UP AND DOWN PEACHTREE 5

At Peachtxee's junction with Houston Street * stands the
seventeen-story Candler Building, Atlanta's first skyscraper
and a monument to Asa G. Candler, who fathered Coca-Cola
and parlayed a mixture of the coca bean and the cola berry,
plus other unidentified ingredients, into one of America's
greatest fortunes.

Peachtree Street is a continuation of Whitehall Street,
which explores the south and southwestern parts of Atlanta.
In fact, for years Whitehall was the more celebrated of the
two streets until the town began moving northward along
Peachtree and left Whitehall to grow dirtier and shabbier
like a mistress who has been deserted by a lover who has
found a more attractive and inviting paramour.

Atlanta's leading theaters jut their marquees out over
portions of Peachtree, and after dark it is difficult to differ-
entiate the junction of Peachtree and Ellis Streets from Times
Square or any other big city center.

In the last twenty-five years Atlanta has grown from a large
country town to a metropolis of 850,000 with her first million
just a few years away. It has become one of America's lead-
ing branch-office cities and serves the South and Southeast
as the New York away from New York for hundreds of busi-
ness establishments.

Peachtree frontage is among the most valuable real estate
in the United States. The record, up to now, is $13,000 a
front foot. Ever since Terminus was renamed Marthasville
and Marthasville, in turn, was named Atlanta, the Peachtree
realty has been choice.

A story is told of Wash Collier, one of the pioneer builders
of Atlanta, that may illustrate the point. A prospective buyer

* Pronounce it HOW-ston or you are immediately tagged as a Texan or
a Yankee.

6 PEACHTREE PARADE

was dickering with him for the purchase of an important plot
bounded by Peachtree, Ellis, and Ivy Streets that is now oc-
cupied by a drugstore, a parking lot, and well, the Collier
Building.

They weren't getting anywhere with the negotiations when
the would-be buyer decided he might make a deal by putting
his last offer in dramatic form.

"I'll tell you what I'll do, Mr. Collier," he propositioned.
"Let's forget any prices that have already been discussed
and put it this way: Til cover this piece of property with silver
dollars, you pick them up and keep them, and 111 own the
land."

Mr. Collier wasn't the type of man who liked to rush into
a business transaction, so he asked for a night to "sleep on it"
So, the next morning the two traders met, and the owner an-
nounced his decision.

"I've decided to accept your offer/' Mr. Collier said, "if
you'll stand those dollars on edge.'*

No deal.

Sixteen of Atlanta's 427 churches, of which 204 are Baptist
and 86 are Methodist, open their doors onto Peachtree Street
Methodist, Baptist, Presbyterian, Episcopal, Christian,
Catholic, Jewish, Christian Science, Seventh Day Adventist
and afford haven to the citizens of a town that is predomi-
nantly churchgoing.

Through a queer quirk of municipal thinking it is legal to
buy a bottle of whisky on Peachtree, but it is illegal to serve
mixed drinks within the city limits. It is even against the law
to mix drinks in your own home if you can be viewed at your
carefree bartending by anyone looking in from the outside.

Peachtree is the throbbing, pulsing artery that supplies the
heart of Atlanta. Yet, after eleven o'clock at night it is prac-

UP AND DOWN PEACHTREE 7

tically deserted. No crowds surge along its twining blocks.
Atlanta is, if you please, an eleven-o'clock town. Night spots
find survival hard on Peachtree.

During the recent years of astounding growth Atlanta has
been in a quandary whether to behave like a metropolis or a
big country town. The strong church element wishes to out-
law liquor, Sunday movies, and Sunday baseball, while
those who call themselves "progressives" want to open up a
little so that the visitor with a restless dollar in his pocket
may put it to local use, even though it may involve buying
a drink or seeking pleasure and recreation on the Sabbath.

Yet as these two elements pull against each other, the
citizenry is, by and large, well content to let matters rock
along as they are. Although the law says you can't sell a
mixed drink within the city limits, there are a dozen places
known to every policeman who patrols the Peachtree beat
where a man with the price can buy anything from a dry
Martini to a Moscow Mule. Atlantians seem to feel that by
winking at a few illegal practices, such as the furtive bars
here and there, the convivial inclinations of visitors may be
catered to without giving the town a reputation for being
wide open which it isn't. Within the last year there
was a crack-down on slot machines that flourished princi-
pally in the private clubs. This came about because out-
siders were moving in and operating them in more public
places, and people felt that there was danger of the thing
getting out of hand. The fact that many of the clubs were
forced to increase membership dues considerably and, in
some instances, curb their charitable activities, didn't make
any difference. There was a feeling abroad that they were
not a good influenceand out they went.

Atlanta still wishes to retain her respectability without
bluntly saying no to the visitor within her gates. She wants

8 PEACHTHEE PARADE

to be a lady but, at the same time, have a little fun on the
side.

The leading private clubs in Atlanta the Capital City,
Atlanta Athletic, Piedmont Driving, Variety, Standard, Pro-
gressive, Peachtree Golf, Druid Hills Golf, Ansley Park,
and Mayfair are supported by the town's best people. These
clubs provide the finest kitchens to excite the palates of
hungry Atlantians, although within recent years a few smart
restaurants notably Harts Peachtree have appeared on
the scene to challenge their culinary superiority.

The Piedmont Driving Club is the most socially exclusive
of the clubs and includes in its membership more of the
old line Atlanta families than any other. The Capital City
and Atlanta Athletic Clubs mingle business and social
contacts. The Standard, Progressive, and Mayfair clubs have
exclusive Jewish memberships. The Variety Club is for the
theater, radio, television, and newspaper people. There was
a time when the membership committee of the Piedmont
Driving Club was more concerned with who the appli-
cant's grandfather was than in the size of his bank account.
But in more recent years the social requirements have been
somewhat adjusted to view with greater favor the qualifica-
tions of those with important positions and robust incomes
who can't quite go all the way back to the Revolution with
their blood lines.

The Atlanta Athletic Club is the home club of Bobby Jones,
and in the reading room of its downtown clubhouse repose
many of the treasured trophies he brought back from the
golfing wars. It was on the A.A.C/s country-club links at
East Lake that Bobby won mastery over the ancient and
honorable game.

Money that is spent in night clubs in many cities is di-
verted to the private clubs in Atlanta. This is a principal

UP AND DOWN PEACHTKEE 9

reason why the commercial night spots have had such a
hard time making a go of it along Peachtree.

To the west of Peachtree, some seven miles north of Five
Points, is West Pace's Ferry Road once Atlanta's most fash-
ionable address. It is on this luxurious avenue that the real
elite of Atlanta society once lived, but now the newer and
slicker Tuxedo Park, somewhat farther north, is the home
grounds of the younger socialites and nouveaux riches. On
West Pace's Ferry Road, in Tuxedo Park, and on Haber-
sham Road are to be found some of the most magnificent
residences in America. Druid Hills, a much older section
of the city than Tuxedo Park, also has its share of eye-
catching dwellings.

It is to these parts of Atlanta that the visitor is imme-
diately hustled by those who wish to prove to him, or her, the
city's pre-eminence as a community of beautiful homes.

Atlanta is a warm city that is, after you have proved
your right to share its warmth. Her people are cordial,
once you have been accepted, and the cordiality is genu-
inely sincere. But you can't just knock on Atlanta's front
door and expect to be invited in immediately for a mint
julep and a plate of fried chicken. It isn't done that way.

But after a period of being cordial and friendly your-
self you gradually realize you have been accepted, and it
is then that you feel the warm arms of this bighearted city
around your shoulders and find that you, too, have fallen
in love with her.

Businessmen sent to Atlanta by their companies to op-
erate branch offices or factories frequently spend a period
of initial bewilderment, and their letters to home-office
executives more often than not are tinted with requests that
they be called in. But, usually, before very long these pleas

10 PEACHTREE PARADE

become less and less frequent and in a comparatively short
time are discontinued entirely. In fact, after a few years the
Atlanta representative is ready to resign if the home-office
big shots suggest transferring him.

What causes this?

Frankly, I don't know. But iny best guess is that Atlanta
possesses more friendly warmth than most northern cities
and more get-up-and-go than most southern cities, and
the combination is an unbeatable one.

As a native Atlantian who has lived within shouting
distance of Five Points practically all of my life, I may not
be an impartial judge. There is a chance that I may be
prejudiced in favor of my municipal girl friend. But, al-
though it sounds trite, I think you can find more genuinely
sincere friendship per square person in Atlanta than in any
other city of comparable size in the world.

As Dr. Pierce Harris, pastor of the First Methodist Church,
has emblazoned on the billboard in front of his downtown
church: "And the people are friendly/ 3 Thafs about the
size of it.

Once you leave Peachtree, you enter into a maze of streets
and avenues that often remains an almost insoluble puzzle
even after you have become what might be called a per-
manent resident. There is no design or pattern to the geo-
graphic layout of the town.

For example, West Peachtree Street is east of Peachtree at
its junction with Beverly Road; Northside Drive plunges
into the south side of town; and you must go through West
End to get to East Point. Furthermore, there are a score
of streets and avenues that have "Peachtree" as a part of
their names.

Ansley Park, a residential section east of Peachtree about
four miles north of Five Points, presents such a baffling

UP AND DOWN PEACHTREE 11

tangle of intertwining streets that a husband who arrives
home in the evening far beyond his usual time is given wifely
absolution if he merely explains that he lost his way.

To illustrate the difficulty with which one finds one's way
around Ansley Park, the story is told of a resident of this
section who wished to dispose of a cat that had become
something of a nuisance. He left home with the cat in his
car with a view to getting rid of the unwelcome animal but
in a short time realized he was hopelessly lost; so he let the
cat out of the car and followed her home.

Crime and the criminal element are kept under control by
the police department of Atlanta under the efficient leader-
ship of Chief Herbert Jenkins, sometimes referred to as the
handsomest police chief in America. Since the Floyd Wood-
ward confidence gang flourished here briefly during the
1920's and took thousands of dollars from the unwary with
their well-oiled schemes, no organized band has preyed on
the citizenry.

As the unofficial Mayor of Peachtree Street who should
be aware of such things, I know of no organized gambling.
There are, of course, poker games here and there where a
man with a restless buck can get action, and a contest at
craps may spring up in some hotel room or club; but there
is no syndicate operating with police protection or any
established gambling house in or near the city.

A few years ago there were a couple of gambling joints
in the outlying districts, but they dried up from a com-
bination of police vigilance and lack of patronage.

In the Negro sections, of course, the police are con-
tinuously breaking up minor games of chance and running
the culprits to the pokey. But this, too, is without organiza-
tion.

A few furtive handbooks take a scattered horse bet

12 PEACHTREE PARADE

now and then, with more action than usual on such events
as the Kentucky Derby, but the business is not an important
one.

The "Bug/' a sucker game in which the player bucks
odds of 999 to 1 to win 500 to 1 if he can name in order
the numerals in the 100,000's column of the New York bond
market, is the nearest thing to organized gambling to be
found in Atlanta, but it is always kept under control

Atlanta is not, in the sense that New Orleans is, a gam-
bling town, and the absence of the gambling element has
had much to do with keeping local crime under wraps.

The cultural life of Atlanta is robust.

The Atlanta Symphony Orchestra, under the baton of
Henry Sopkin, has been widely celebrated as one of the
finest symphony groups in the country.

The Atlanta Art Association provides a center of teach-
ing and aesthetic enjoyment.

The All-Star Concert Series, under the expert manage-
ment of Marvin McDonald, brings the world's finest vocal
and instrumental artists to Peachtree.

Each spring the Metropolitan Opera Company brings
its vast organization to Atlanta for a season of opera, and all
the seats are sold well in advance of the first presentation.

Atlanta has long been famous for the beauty of its women-
folk. A stroll along Peachtree at any time during the day or
evening will impress the onlooker with the pulchritude of
the Georgia Peaches. There is something indefinable about
them that excites the admiration of the male and the envy
of the female.

Some years ago in a burst of enthusiasm I penned these
lines:

UP AND DOWN PEACHTREE 13

On Peachtree Street the flappers * go
As by the tea hounds f row on row
They make a multicolored show

And look so sweet

Aromas waft from weird perfume
And garments flash from fashion's loom,
That's where the Georgia peaches bloom-
On Peachtree Street.

On Peachtree Street trim ankles prance

Which leave a longing for the dance

And in their pathway give, perchance,
The eyes a treat

Tis not a sight that one would spurn

But such a view as might concern

The well-known prodigal's return-
On Peachtree Street.

On Peachtree Street there's life and joy,

No crude disorders can annoy

As boy greets girl and girl greets boy

And young eyes meet. . .
There's meaning in the shadowed glance
That strikes its mark by lucky chance
Where flames the New South's old romance-
On Peachtree Street

I was considerably younger than I am now when these
lines were written, but I see no reason whatsoever to change
my opinion. The only difference is that now the middle-aged
women look better to me than they did thirty years ago.

So, when you mention Peachtree you're speaking of the
street I love.

* Now called cuties, babes, dolls, etc.
t Wolves is the current terminology.

Covering Dixie like the Dew

MANY YEARS AGO A READER WROTE A NOTE TO THE EDITOR OF
The Journal that read substantially as follows:

"Dear Sir: I have been reading The Atlanta Journal for
many years and in my opinion it covers Dixie like the dew."

In consequence, "Covers Dixie like the Dew 7 ' has long
been the slogan of The Journal.

When I joined the staff of The Atlanta Journal in Novem-
ber, 1920, the city room was presided over by a benign tyrant
named Harllee Branch. He was the real life counterpart of
the fictional city editor of the movies and certain sensational
novels.

He yelled at his staff with a voice that shook the rafters.

14

COVERING DIXIE LIKE THE DEW 15

It was even said of him that he whispered at the top of
his voice. He drove himself and his men hard. Shoddy re-
porting brought him up from behind his desk with a roar
of rage to face the culprit and deliver to him the journal-
istic facts of life in the fire and brimstone manner.

But much as they sometimes griped, the men under
Harllee Branch loved him. They knew that he stood between
them and the management and would fight for his boys
with a vigor equal to if not greater than that with which
he drove them to their tasks. It was all right for him to give
his reporters hell, but he didn't want anyone else doing it.

He had been a great reporter himself, distinguished par-
ticularly in covering the Leo M. Frank case, and he held
the respect of a hard-bitten gang of newsmen who realized
that he was the best newspaperman of the lot.

The rigors of the city desk in time took their toll of
Mr. Branch's physical and nervous energy, and he was as-
signed by The Journal to browse about the state covering
county fairs and writing stories concerning various com-
munities and their achievements.

It must have been dull, indeed, for a man of Mr. Branch's
temperament, but, like the good newspaperman he was, he
pitched in with great zeal and in time had more personal
contacts throughout the state than any other individual on
The Journal,

So, when Franklin D. Roosevelt was nominated by the
Democratic Party and was making his first race for the
presidency, Harllee Branch was dispatched to the cam-
paign headquarters in New York to help in any way he
could. So effective was his work that when the campaign
was successfully concluded Mr. Branch was commandeered
by James A. Farley, the new postmaster general, and highly
placed in the post-office setup.

After serving with distinction in this post Mr. Branch was

16 PEACHTKEE PARADE

appointed to the Civil Aeronautics Board, where he did
highly effective work until his retirement a few years ago.
He never came back to work for The Journal after the first
Roosevelt campaign but has been an occasional visitor since.

Harllee Branch left a deep imprint on southern journalism
not only through his personal efforts but because he helped
train a corps of newspapermen who have been a credit to
the craft.

At the time I joined The Journal staff, the star reporter
was Ward Greene, a gifted young man who later tried his
fortune in New York with most gratifying results. He became
head of the King Features Syndicate and authored a shelf
of readable books. His final effort, before his death last Janu-
ary, was Lady and the Tramp, from which Walt Disney made
a fascinating motion picture.

Jimmie, as Ward was known to the staff, covered all types
of assignments and wrote a special page of Negro stories
for The Journals Sunday magazine under the heading,
"Jedge Johnson's Police Court Matinee/' At the time The
Atlanta Georgian, a Hearst paper now absorbed, used the
by-line "Polly Peachtree" on its society pages over a column
telling of the doings of Atlanta's elite. Mr. Greene wrote
his police-court stuff (without ever going near the place)
under the name of "Dolly Decatur," thereby causing mem-
bers of The Georgians society department great mental
pain and anguish. The "Decatur" part of the by-line was
significant because Atlanta's police headquarters is on De-
catur Street.

In a compilation of great newspaper stories Ward Greene
took occasion to honor a talented staff mate of his, the late
Rogers Winter, by reprinting the latter's thrilling account of
accompanying Leo Frank's body to Atlanta from Marietta,
Georgia, where the unhappy man had been lynched. In an-
other chapter I shall discuss the Frank case in some detail.

COVERING DIXIE LIKE THE DEW 17

Let it suffice to say here that it is one of the most dramatic
stories in the crime annals of America and may have been
one of the most terrible miscarriages of justice in the history
of our courts.

When I joined the staff, Rogers Winter was The Journal's
political expert. As a young reporter I was particularly
fascinated by his technique on a typewriter, as were other
members of the staff. When Rogers sat down at the type-
writer nobody laughed, but all remained to be mesmerized
by the fascinating rhythm of his fleet fingers on the keys.
There was never the slightest hesitation while hunting for a
word or a letter and the steady beat had an almost hypnotic
effect.

Rogers left The Journal at the height of his effectiveness to
do publicity for the Stone Mountain Monumental Associa-
tion, an organization formed for the express purpose of
having a suitable monument to the Confederacy carved on
the side of nearby Stone Mountain. All it achieved, however,
were a few scratches on the great monolith. Lack of funds, in-
ternal bickering, and a general state of hassle prevented the
association from carrying out its mission.

As relief from his political reporting Mr. Winter was
wont to write feature stories about a fabulous Atknta
character named Colonel Jefferson Shacldeford Mills. Colo-
nel Mills was the type of person who is a reporter's dream:
he would confirm anything written about him so long as all
three of his names were spelled correctly and he appeared
in the hero's role. Hence, Rogers concocted some fantastic
stories and laid them at his door.

One of the most amazing was that Colonel Mills knew
where a secret cache of gunpowder had been stored in a
large hole bored near the summit of Stone Mountain and
that sometime or other, either by accident or design, the

18 PEACHTREE PARADE

explosive would be detonated and the mountain would dis-
appear in a puff of smoke.

So realistic was Mr. Winter's account of this circumstance
that some persons residing near the mountain became
greatly alarmed and a few considered moving from the
neighborhood. Pressure was brought on Colonel Mills to
recant his story, but he remained firm because it had been
printed in a newspaper. After a while, of course, the whole
thing blew over and nothing blew up.

There was an occasion, however, on which Colonel Mills
was outraged. For some reason or other he fell unconscious
on a downtown street and was hurried by ambulance to the
Grady Memorial Hospital for emergency treatment. On re-
gaining consciousness he noted to his great disgust that
there was a label attached to the great toe of his left foot
that bore the impersonal and uncomplimentary legend:
"Unknown White Man."

The Colonel's white whiskers would bristle every time
the story was told in his presence, and would invariably
comment, "Unknown hell/*

During my early years on The Journal staff a tall, blond
young man drifted in and began writing mortuary notices.
So far as I know he never rose above that humble assign-
ment before leaving for greener pastures. But, according to
all reports, he did pretty well after taking his leave. He
was the author of a considerable number of books, among
them Tobacco Road, in which he clawed the hide off cer-
tain segments of Georgia's social structure. His name was
Erskine Caldwell, and since attaining literary eminence,
he has been an infrequent visitor to his native state.

Shortly before I came to The Journal Ward Morehouse,
the drama critic and Broadway columnist for New York

COVERING DIXIE LIKE THE DEW 19

newspapers, had left for Gotham to try his luck. As a Journal
staffer Mr. Morehouse had been nothing less than sensa-
tional.

Among the legends of The Journal staff is the fact that
Mr. Morehouse generally took the most devious approach
in getting a story and on occasion impersonated officers of
the law, or anyone else, as a means of obtaining his informa-
tion.

In several instances, legend has it, he came in violent
physical contact with some of his sources of information and
on such occasions invariably emerged second best.

After one particularly disastrous encounter he was called
on the carpet by Harllee Branch, who said to him in the
presence of the entire staff, "The trouble with you, More-
house, is that you are a strong-arm guy with a weak arm/'

During the period of which I write it was not unusual for
modestly paid journalists to augment their meager incomes
by accepting other employment in their off hours or serving
as press agents for various enterprises and institutions.

It was under these circumstances that a former Journal
assistant city editor made one of the finest deals in public
relations that has ever been called to my attention. This
gentleman approached the manager of a downtown hotel
with a proposition that he would protect the hostelry against
any adverse publicity in return for a room in the hotel, check
signing privileges in the dining room, and a small salary.

Inasmuch as the hotel had been disenjoying a bad press,
the proposal was accepted, and the arrangement proceeded
to the delighted satisfaction of all concerned for several
months. Friends of the new public-relations man were eat-
ing better than they had ever eaten before, and as I recall,
it was as his guest that I first enjoyed the gustatory delight

20 PEACHTREE PARADE

known as Baked Alaska. To liave a colleague with a hotel
room at his disposal wasn't bad, either.

But the lid blew off one night when a well-known man
about police was perforated by a party or parties unknown
and died a sudden death on the carpet of a fifth-floor hall-
way in this hostelry.

Immediately, it goes without saying, the Atlanta papers
were full of the sensational homicide. And, also immediately,
the budding part-time public-relations man was ordered
front and center to explain why he had not fulfilled his bar-
gain and kept from the papers the unpleasant news, in-
cluding the name of the hotel, that was currently being
featured in large black headlines.

All along, of course, the assistant city editor had known
that his guarantee of "no bad publicity" was good only so
long as nothing of an unpleasant news nature occurred
in the hotel. So, when called on the carpet, he admitted all
charges of having failed to carry out his part of the agree-
ment and bowed out as gracefully as he could with this
comment:

"Well, boys, it was wonderful while it lasted,"

The late Major John S. Cohen, for many years president
and editor of The Atlanta Journal, was a most fastidious
man. His manners were courtly, and his dress was immacu-
late. Even during the hottest summer weather he invariably
wore a waistcoat

This is not to suggest that Major Cohen was anything but
a gentleman of iron fiber and tremendous courage, both
physical and editorial. Under his regime The Journal spoke
out f orthrightly on any and all matters of public concern.

There was, however, one matter concerning which the
Major enjoyed a small vanity the private toilet that ad-
joined his office. This was, indeed, the sanctum sanctorum,

COVERING DIXIE LIKE THE DEW 21

the holy of holies. No one dared enjoy the facilities of the
Throne Room except by direct and personal invitation of
the Major.

There came a time, though, when Major Cohen relaxed his
rule because of affection for William Cole Jones, The Jour-
nal's chief editorial writer and a scholar of sensitive talents
whose magic with words was comparable to that of Houdini
in the realm of legerdemain and sleight of hand. As a mat-
ter of fact, Major Cohen bestowed on Professor Jones, so
called because of his outstanding scholarship and the fact
that he had for a season been on the teaching staff of Mercer
University, the highest accolade within his power per-
mission to share the personal privy.

Needless to say, Professor Jones was mindful of the high
honor bestowed on him and cherished it mightily. Thus, one
may well imagine the horror that overwhelmed him one
morning when, on entering the holy of holies, he saw a
brutish rodent frolicking in the snow-white bowl of the
toilet.

Filled with outrage and a certain sense of personal danger,
the good Professor rushed into Major Cohen's office in search
of a bludgeon. It was early in the morning and the Major
had not arrived for work but his golf bag was standing in
a corner. The Professor grabbed up a club and returned to
his task of dispatching the monster.

In the course of his exertions the gentle man of letters
struck at the rat time and again, with the result that the
prowling rodent not only was slain but the toilet bowl was
reduced to a powder. It was not until he looked distastefully
at the corpse of the battered animal that Professor Jones
realized the enormity of what he had done.

He was not left long alone with his remorse, however, be-
cause the Major arrived soon thereafter and demanded,
"What the hell's going on around here?"

22 PEACHTREE PABADE

In somewhat halting phrases Professor Jones told of his
unnerving experience and of the damage that had been
done. He also handed Major Cohen the stick with which the
shambles had been wrought. As the Major took it in his
hand, a delighted gleam lighted up his eyes.

"A niblick, eh?" he mused. And then turning to the dis-
traught editorialist he remarked, "Professor, you really
played hell with my toilet, but I want to congratulate you on
one thing you certainly used the right club."

Newspapering I almost wrote "journalism" apparently
hasn't as much time for horseplay as during the robust era
of the twenties. Maybe the forty-hour week has had some-
thing to do with it. It could be the feminine invasion. Or,
perhaps, it could be that management frowns on high-spirited
young men who play pranks on one another.

In any event, it has been many years since Sergeant
Pickleheimer ran amuck at Fort McPherson.

The Pickleheimer story, in case you need enlightenment,
was a device conceived by the more hellish spirits on The
Journal staff to test the mettle of young reporters. The story,
pure invention mind you, usually broke late of a Saturday
night or on a dull afternoon when there would be only a few
people in the city room.

It began innocently enough. Someone in the vicinity of
Fort McPherson, a military establishment near Atlanta that
is now the headquarters of the Third Army, would call in to
report that a Sergeant Pickleheimer had insulted the com-
manding general's daughter and had been placed in the
guardhouse.

The cub or pigeon, or whatever it was they called the kid
reporter, would be directed by the acting city editor to talk
to the person who was calling and do a small rewrite on the
story. If the young reporter was too inquisitive his informant

COVERING DIXIE LIKE THE DEW 23

would be exceedingly evasive and protest that he was telling
all he knew and, furthermore, didn't want to get mixed tip
in the thing because real trouble might be brewing.

The "informant/' by the way, was usually a police reporter
calling on the paper's private wire from the police station to
help while away the tedium.

Our cub, eager to please and filled with journalistic desire,
would usually knock out the trivial item in short order and
beam with pride when the city editor complimented him on
such a splendid piece of work.

But no sooner would the neophyte return to his desk than
there would be another call from Fort McPherson to the
effect that friends of Sergeant Pickleheimer were outraged at
the summary treatment accorded him and were congregating
at the guardhouse with the avowed intention of storming it
and releasing their comrade.

Fresh light would be thrown on the incident, too, with
the report that it was the general's daughter who had insulted
Sergeant PicHeheimer and not the other way 'round. This
wasn't too important, of course, but usually added to the
confusion.

By now, as you can imagine, our cub reporter would be
getting considerably steamed and the acting city editor
would begin laying it on about the importance of the story,
that was developing. The youngster, more likely than not,
would begin placing a few telephone calls to check certain
angles but he didn't have a chance. All the trunk phone
lines would be plugged out by the switchboard operator
also in on the plot and the only people he could reach,
regardless of whom he called, were other conspirators.

The acting city editor, though, would not be in too great a
humor to tolerate phone calls. What he wanted was copy
CO py_ C opy. He would tell the neophyte to disregard what he

24 PEACHTREE PARADE

had already written and start over from scratch to take full
advantage of new developments.

As our harassed cub would think he had the new story
under fair control, there would be another call from the Fort
with the shocking intelligence that shooting had begun and
that Sergeant Pickleheimer's friends were locked in mortal
combat with other troops at McPherson. At this point a touch
of realism would be added by the simple device of scraping
the teeth of a pocket comb across the mouthpiece of an up-
right telephone. It sounded strangely like machine-gun fire.

Once more the copy that already had been written would
be discarded, and our boy would take a fresh grip on his type-
writer and sail off once more into the wild blue something-
or-other. But not for long. More calls . . . more rewrite . . .
casualty lists . . . more rewrite . . . PicHeheimer had been res-
cued . . . more rewrite.

Needless to say, our cub was in a fine frenzy by the time
he got word by telephone, of course that Chief James L.
Beavers, then head of the Atlanta police department, was
heading a detachment of mounted police on their way to
Fort McPherson to quell the riot, which by now was in full
swing.

Adding to the confusion of the victim would be printers
from the composing room who would bring in banner head-
lines for checking; and excited copy-desk men wanting to
check the spelling of names, particularly that of Sergeant
Pickleheimer, whose first and middle names, unhappily, were
never available.

And so it went for as long as the gang wanted to keep it
going. There was a certain ritual, however, that was always
observed. The final somber note was sounded when our Fort
McPherson correspondent, choking back his tears, would call
to report that Chief Beavers had been shot off his horse.

And that would be that almost. With the tibrilling story

COVERING DIXIE LIKE THE DEW 25

wrapped up and with visions of Pulitzer Prizes dancing
through his fevered brain, our cub would take off for his
modest lodgings to await the morrow when he would meet
the newspaper carrier in the cold gray dawn (if the job had
been done on a Saturday night, as it usually was) bringing
him the publication in which his masterpiece would appear
under his by-line.

We were never exactly sure what reactions of disappoint-
ment our victims underwent because there was never anyone
present to observe the frantic search for the story that wasn't
there.

I do know of at least two interesting aftermaths of the
Pickleheimer story.

After being given the treatment one Saturday night, Mr.
Bryan Wooten Collier, later to win renown as an editorial
writer on various newspapers, took the Owl trolley for his
home in College Park, a suburb of Atlanta. Mr. Collier was
so imbued with enthusiasm for the story he had but recently
written that he arose in the vehicle and, after first identify-
ing himself as the author, urged one and all to give special
attention to his account of the Fort McPherson riot they
would be reading over their coffee in a few hours.

The other instance concerns the late Jack Patterson, a
veteran staffer who was sucked into the hoax quite by acci-
dent. Mr. Patterson, a large man of undoubted physical
courage, chanced to be in the city room late one afternoon
when the Pickleheimer was being applied.

Through carelessness or inattention, or something, Mr.
Patterson had never heard of the prank but became greatly
interested in the goings-on as he noted the frantic telephon-
ing and the phony enthusiasm engaging those toiling in the
journalistic vineyard. When a police reporter came into the
room and refused point-blank to visit the scene of the riot
on the grounds that he was too young to die, Mr. Patterson

26 PEACHTREE PABAJDE

was so outraged at this apparent stow of cowardice that he
called his colleague a tart name and set out by trolley at his
own expense to carry aloft the banner of The Journal in a
moment of testing.

As the trolley neared Fort McPherson Mr. Patterson arose
in his place to give his fellow passengers a word of caution.

"Folks," he announced with some emotion, "all hell has
broken loose at Fort McPherson. A riot has been raging for
more than an hour. I strongly urge that all of you take such
cover as you can find inside this vehicle as soon as the oper-
ator stops it to let me off. I'm a reporter for The Atlanta
Journal on assignment to cover this thing, and if I don't see
any of you again good luck/'

As Mr. Patterson concluded his warning the other pas-
sengers crouched in their seats or threw themselves at full
length on the floor. The trolley ground to a halt, and Mr.
Patterson swung off into one of the quietest Friday after-
noons in the history of Fort McPherson.

George O. Moody was for many years The Journals court-
house reporter. A claim to fame, about which he was becom-
ingly modest, was the fact that as a youngster in New Eng-
land he had once sung in a Sunday School cantata with
Geraldine Farrar, who later became a reigning diva of the
Metropolitan Opera Company.

But in his workday pursuits Mr. Moody was concerned
chiefly with bills of divorcement, petitions for abatement of
one thing or another, trials by jury, and, of course, the
activities of the Fulton County police.

Although the late George O. was as zealous a fact finder as
any city editor could wish, and pounded his beat with punc-
tilious attention to detail, he was not particularly noted for
writing style becausewell, he rarely ever wrote anything.

COVEKING DIXIE LIKE THE DEW 27

He would get the facts, unload them to a rewrite man, and
resume his pursuit of the phantom fact.

But it was this selfsame George Moody who wrote what
many Peachtree journalists consider the finest lead ever con-
trived by a local newsman although, unhappily, it never saw
the light of publication,

The circumstances were these: a blonde and obstreperous
lady residing in the south side of the county saw fit to ply her-
self with large quantities of corn whisky one Saturday eve-
ning before going out on the town. From the moment she
left home, things began to happen. She engaged in fisticuffs
with her taxicab driver, came to blows with a restaurant
proprietor, and otherwise whooped it up in a most unladylike
manner.

Now, any student of journalism will admit that such facts
as these are not necessarily conducive to more than routine
treatment. But, for some unexplained reason, they struck a
spark when they came to George Moody's attention. As a
matter of fact, he came into the office to write the piece be-
cause he had a notion for a lead that he did not wish to
entrust to the rewrite battery.

Accordingly, Mr. Moody sat down at his typewriter and
laboriously tapped out the following words:

"Hell hath no fury like a woman corned."

There followed, of course, the facts as gleaned by Mr.
Moody, which were put down in orderly fashion. The diligent
reporter, realizing that he had reached a peak of inspiration,
covertly watched the city desk as his masterpiece came up
for inspection. To his horror he saw the assistant city editor
show the piece of copy to the city editor and then toss it
into the waste basket.

Mr. Moody was crushed, and rightly so. But what he
hadn't taken into consideration was the fact that at that

28 PEACHTBEE PARADE

particular period in The Journals development it was for-
bidden to carry the word "Hell' 7 in its virgin columns.

One more reference to Mr. Moody may not be amiss.

On a Saturday night in the dead of winter he called his
home in Hapeville (an Atlanta suburb) to inquire of Mrs.
Moody what she wished him to bring home in the way of
edibles. The grocery list was a long one, and Mr. Moody
recorded the items on a sheet of copy paper without comment
until well near the bottom of the page. It was then that he
came up with a bellow that shook the city room.

"Strawberries !" he screamed into the telephone, and then
inquired in a voice saturated with sarcasm, 'Well, how would
you like a nice steam yacht?"

To you of a more recent generation it should be explained
that in the days of Mr. Moody out-of-season strawberries
were more expensive than their corresponding weight in
gold bullion or precious stones. And, it also should be ex-
plained, a reporter who made fifty dollars a week considered
himself in the higher income brackets. Thus, the paean of
pain.

Angus Perkerson, the dour Scot who has edited The
Journal Sunday magazine since its birthing, is not a man
usually noted for quickness or pungency of repartee. In the
main he is seriously concerned with the past, present, and
future content of his magazine and is not given to the trivial
joshing that sometimes springs up among those of a less
serious nature.

There was one occasion, however, when Mr. Perkerson
applied his fine mind to the matter of a retort and came up
with a doll.

A certain copyreader of loutish tendencies and an exceed-
ingly prominent derriere was wont to pick on Perk as his

COVERING DIXIE LIKE THE DEW 29

particular victim. Hardly a day passed that his sharp tongue
didn't slice an ugly wound in Mr. Perkerson's sensitive feel-
ings.

On a day when the copyreader had been particularly
acidulous, the dignified magazine editor retired in some con-
fusion to lick his wounds and, if possible, contrive a counter-
offensive. He gave the matter considerable thought, and
finally, when he had his barb suitably dipped in venom, he
returned to the city room and faced his tormentor.

"Hey, you!" he exclaimed. "Your head is twice as fat as
your fanny, and you don't use it half as much!"

Having spoken his piece Mr. Perkerson turned abruptly
on his heel and returned to his labors of editing the maga-
zine, leaving the deflated copyreader wondering, with mouth
agape, what had hit him.

In news parlance a "Bulldog" is an edition of the paper
that is predated. In other words, the "Bulldog 7 * edition of the
Sunday paper is printed Saturday night but carries a Sunday
dateline. So, with this brief lesson in newpaperese, we may
proceed to the case of the outraged copy boy.

It was not unusual during my days in the city room for
office boys to undergo a bit of hazing during the first day or
two they were on the job. They would be sent on this wild
goose chase or that and the resultant merriment from the
youth's discomfiture would lighten the tedium of a tough day
in the typewriter pits.

When a large, awkward office boy named Cecil had been
on the job only a short time, it occurred to one of the copy-
readers that he should be sent over to The Constitution, then
located across the railroad tracks from The Journal, to obtain
a paper stretcher, of which there is no such.

"What's that?" inquired Cecil when told the item he was
to get.

30 PEACHTREE PARADE

"It's a device for stretching paper/* the copyreader ex-
plained. "Sometimes the paper on which The Journal is
printed comes in rolls that are too narrow, in which case the
paper must be stretched."

With these words of explanation in his ears Cecil set out
for The Constitution building to get a paper stretcher, but
unfortunately there wasn't a single one on the premises. But,
said The Constitution fellow, there was a good chance that
one could be found at The Atlanta Georgian office. At The
Georgian office, though, they had just run out of paper
stretchers but, in all likelihood, one could be found at The
Ruralist Press. And on it went.

Finally, although it took some time to do it ? Cecil got wise
to the fact that he was being suckered and came on back to
the office, where he joined, although somewhat feebly, in the
general laughter. Of one thing he was certain, though. He
wasn't going to fall for any more gags.

But hardly had the resolute copy boy made himself com-
fortable in an office chair before there was a call from Major
Cohen's office for a copy boy. Cecil was elected.

"Yes, sir, 7 ' Cecil said as politely as you please when he
entered the office of the editor.

"I wish you would go down to the pressroom and get me
four Bulldogs," the Major requested.

Cecil, who wasn't the kind of fellow you could catch nap-
ping a second time, drew himself up to his full height and
gave the editor and publisher of The Journal a withering
look.

"And just who do you think you're kidding?" the enlight-
ened copy boy said in tones of extreme disgust as he stalked
out of the Major's office.

Rarely does one encounter an out-and-out stinker in the
newspaper business despite what you may have heard per-

COVERING DIXIE LIKE THE DEW 31

fervid politicians scream from the stump. Ill admit that
through the years a few deadbeats and a sprinkling of
chiselers will pass through any large city room. But rotters?
Well, I have only encountered one ( or maybe two ) in thirty-
five years of newspapering.

This fellow, whom I shall not dignify with a name, had as
black a heart as any scoundrel to be found in the realms of
fact or fiction. Before he was finally found out and given the
gate, he not only had sold out his newspaper to various
groups and interests but had swindled trusting acquaintances
out of many a dollar.

As is often typical of his kind, he was a personable man
with a bland look and engaging manner. He smiled easily,
and there were wrinkles of merriment at the corners of his
eyes. But wait until you hear what he did to his bride on their
first wedding anniversary.

As usual he was low in funds as the happy day approached,
but he wished above all else to impress his bride a praise-
worthy objective if it had not been cloaked in vile chicanery.
So, the morning of the anniversary celebration lie went to
an agency that had automobiles for hire and rented one that ?
in appearance, was brand-new. Then he drove it home and
proudly presented it to his bride as a wedding anniversary
present.

He had figured all the angles with care. He knew his wife
did not know how to drive. He also knew that she was leaving
the next morning by train to visit relatives in a nearby state.

So, after an afternoon and evening of enjoying the new
automobile, he drove his wife to the railway station the next
morning and then returned the machine to the rental agency.

How did all of this tie up?

A couple of days later he wrote his bride a letter in which
he gave a distressing account of having wrecked their fine

32 PEACHTREE PABADE

new car and, inasmuch as it was not covered by insurance,
he would be unable to replace it.

When upbraided by fellow staffers for having played such
a scurvy trick on his wife, the rascal actually expressed sur-
prise.

"Whaf s wrong with what I did?" he asked. "She got all
the thrill of being given a new car for an anniversary present,
and it cost me only a few bucks."

It takes all kinds.

When George C. Biggers, Sr., president of Atlanta News-
papers, Inc., first came to Atlanta from Birmingham to
assume an executive position with The Journal he imme-
diately set about learning all he could about the operation.
With the title of business manager he figured, naturally, that
he should find out, and quickly, how business was.

With this in view Mr. Biggers began inviting various and
sundry employees of The Journal to his office for discussions
of this and that. His visitors included department heads,
specialists in one thing and another, and many of the rank
and file.

During these discussions it was more or less routine for
the seasoned personnel to profess great affection for the
paper that "Covers Dixie like the Dew." They told Mr. Big-
gers of their length of service and how they loved the old
paper. It was not unusual for them to shed a few tears as
they spoke of their fondness for "the dear old Journal" and
some found it necessary to break off the interview because of
overpowering emotions.

Mr. Biggers was not impressed by these protestations of
devotion. He also noticed that the ones who spoke most feel-
ingly of 'loving the old paper" were those who were generally
lowest in point of efficiency in the performance of their par-
ticular tasks.

COVERING DIXIE LIKE THE DEW S3

Thus, it was not entirely unexpected that lie should reply
as lie did when sometime later he was asked by another
executive to report what, if anything, was wrong.

"The paper is being loved to death" was his laconic reply,

Ed Bradley, considered by many to have been the best
all-round newspaper reporter ever to work on Atlanta news-
papers, was so accurate in his reporting and so forthright in
his personal relations that he was called "Honest Ed" by
those who knew him best

Besides his genius as a reporter, Honest Ed had such a sane
outlook on life that he was frequently called on by others for
advice. There was, for example, the occasion just before
Christmas one year when a member of The Journal staff
who had been a bad boy, indeed, called on him for counsel.

This particular journalist was what is known among dipso-
maniacs as a "spree drinker ." That is, it was only at infrequent
intervals that he would become charged with firewater and
disappear from his usual haunts including the city room
for days at a time. On these occasions the alarm would be
sounded, and a general search would be made to determine
the whereabouts of the wandering wordsmith.

Usually it devolved on the father of the straying scribe to
search hotels, rooming houses, etc., until the prodigal was
found and set once more on the paths of righteous rectitude.

During the autumn preceding the Christmas of reference
our wanderer had been performing more waywardly than
usual, and everyone was pretty well worn out with his
eccentricities.

But the roaming reporter was not without finer instincts.
He was filled with remorse and fervent intentions of doing
better. In fact, he wished to obtain a suitable Christmas
present for his father, and it was on this subject that he
sought Honest Ed's advice.

34 PEACHTKEE PARADE

"I realize that I have been a stinker/' he told Mr. Bradley.
"I've caused the people here in the office and my father an
unreasonable amount of trouble. But the Old Man has been
swell about it, and the least I can do is to get him a proper
Christmas present. What do you think I should get him, Ed?"

Honest Ed pondered the problem only a moment. He
knew with what difficulty the reporter's father had located
his son from time to time, and it was likely that he had this
in mind when he turned to his questioner and replied:

"Why the hell don't you get him a bloodhound?"

Morgan Blake, for many years sports editor of The Journal
and at the time of his death in 1953 an editorial-page colum-
nist, was a wild one before, as he was wont to put it, he "was
saved." But once he turned his back on the Demon Rum it
was for keeps, and he roamed the country far and wide
preaching the gospel of sobriety as it applied to the Christian
life.

There is, of course, no way of estimating the good this man
wrought among those who could likely not have been
touched by gentlemen of the cloth, Morgan had been through
the mill. He talked the language of the man who had been
grinned down by the Demon but had the courage to grin
back.

Every day there streamed into his office a parade of bums,,
loafers, drunkards, and much of the riffraff of a big city seek-
ing a handout or spiritual advice. He was equally generous
with both.

But in the days before his life was opened to the greater
prospect, he had added to the lore of the city room. Among
other things, Morgan had a proclivity for picking fights when
tinder the influence but never following through personally,
that is. Always, at the crucial moment, he would step aside

COVERING DIXIE LIKE THE DEW 35

in favor of, as lie put it, "the gentleman wlio does my fight-
ing."

I recall an occasion in the Piedmont Hotel when Mr. Blake
and others joined in a jollification being enjoyed by members
of a semipro baseball team from a nearby town who were
either celebrating a victory or assuaging the pangs of defeat.

As the celebration reached a crescendo Mr. Blake and the
star batsman of the visitors became engaged in a fierce argu-
ment that was trembling on the verge of blows. Finally, the
baseball player picked up a large water pitcher and de-
claimed to Morgan and all others present, "I'm a-goin* to
knock your brains out."

Mr. Blake was not disturbed in the slightest.

"That is as it should be, my friend," he told the infuriated
athlete. "But let's make no mistake. I'm a peaceful man. I
never do any fighting. It just so happens, however, that I
have with me the gentleman who does my fighting, Mr.
Wales Thomas, of The Atlanta Journals copy-desk staff. If
you will just settle your differences with him, I shall consider
them settled with me."

Whereupon, Mr. Blake pushed his understudy forward
just in time to receive the full force of a hotel water pitcher
being crashed down on his skull with all the might and fury
of a six-feet-two baseball player. By a miracle Mr. Thomas
wasn't killed outright but spent the better part of a week
laid up with injuries that Mr. Blake informed members of the
staff had been incurred "in line of duty."

There was another occasion on which Mr. Blake was at
loggerheads with his then managing editor, John PaschaU,
who later became editor of The Journal, about the matter of
getting to work on time in the mornings. Mr. Blake, it seems,
just couldn't make the 7:30 A.M. starting whistle, and Mr.
Paschall was exceedingly wroth. Finally, Mr. Paschall laid

36 PEACHTKEE PARADE

down a dictum. It was a Saturday night when he told his
sports editor that he would start a new career based on
punctuality or else.

Mr. Blake knew the temper of Mr. PaschalTs anger, so he
hit on a plan to forestall any further dereliction of duty.
Before going to his modest lodgings that night he dickered
successfully with a neighborhood bootlegger and, thus pre-
pared, took to his couch. It was Mr. Blake's intention to
sleep Saturday night, all day Sunday, and be bright-eyed
and eager for the new week.

But somewhere along the line the sports editor and the
contraband and the calendar became hopelessly entangled
with the result that when he hit the office at 7:30 A.M. to
receive the praise of his managing editor he got, instead, a
grumpy growl from the boss to the effect that "you're here
at seven-thirty all right, but where the hell were you Mon-
day?"

During an important sports event in the East a Peachtree
journalist collapsed from what well might be called bottle
fatigue." Let it be said to his credit that he had managed to
get into the press room and placed himself in the posture of
writing that is, his fingers were somewhere near the key-
board of his portable typewriter but his head, suddenly
grown heavy, had sagged onto his chest. Even the most
casual observer could tell at a glance that he had passed out.

There is among newspaper people an unwritten law that
whenever humanly possible no member of the press on
assignment shall be allowed to miss out on a story merely be-
cause he has indulged not wisely but too well.

So, when Grandand Bice observed the inert figure of the
erring journalist he at once sprang into action. He already had
written his story, so he sat down and wrote another for his

COVERING DIXIE LIKE THE DEW 37

friend, addressed it to The Atlanta Journal and attached the
name of the erring one to the dispatch.

Having done what he considered his journalistic duty, Mr.
Rice went on about his business, and it wasn't long before
another sports writer came into the press room, saw the body
draped over the typewriter, and forthwith sent another story
to The Journal to which he affixed the name of the gentleman
of the press, who was by this time really sailing on the fleecy
clouds of unconsciousness.

After he had left yet another writer, after determining that
rigor mortis had not set in, performed a similar chore and
sent another glowing account of the important sports event
winging toward Atlanta bearing the signature of the scribe,
who was by this time a permanent resident of dream-
land.

Mr. Paschall, at that time managing editor of The Journal,
was apprised by the desk man in the sports department of
the flood of dispatches being received from the paper's repre-
sentative.

The managing editor, being wise in the ways of those who
looked upon the wine when it was red and the corn when it
was white, pecked out a message on his typewriter and sent
it to the besotted one where he lay, a victim of the Demon.
It read:

"Please quit trying. The first one was the best."

Mr. PaschalTs reaction to the name of the sculptor origi-
nally chosen to carve the monument on Stone Mountain was
unusual but demonstrated that the onetime editor of The
Journal had a keen ear.

"What is the name?" Mr. Paschall asked of the informant
who brought him the news.

"Borglum," was the reply.

38 PEACHTBEE PABAJDE

"Borglum," repeated Mr. Paschall as he pronounced the
unusual name. "Sounds like a bubble in a bathtub."

I report with sadness that many of the blithe spirits men-
tioned in these reminiscences of active reportorial days have
gone to receive such rewards as await those of fine talent
and human understanding after the "Final Edition" has been
put to bed. Major Cohen . . . John Paschall . . . Jack Patter-
son . . . Morgan Blake . . . Ed Bradley . . . Wales Thomas . . .
Rogers Winter . . . Ward Greene . . . George Moody. . . .

They were a vital part of the gallant crew with whom I
grew up in the newspaper business men who helped lay the
foundation on which the great institution known as The
Atlanta Journal rests today.

They gave the best that was in them of courage, honesty,
integrity, energy, talent, and zeal because they were news-
papermen tried and true. And as the dedicated young men
and women of today go about their task of "getting out the
paper" the friendly shades of their journalistic forebears
hover near.

To them The Journal was their life, and to those of us who
remain they have passed a flaming torch.

Rewrites and General Assignments

IN THE PATOIS OF THE CITY ROOM "REWRITES AND GENERAL

Assignments" refers to the work done by those specialists
who take stories over the telephone from reporters who are
on the spot, and who also are sent out on occasion to inter-
view celebrities or cover events of special interest. For
several years in the logbook kept on the city desk of The
Journal to designate the work of each reporter for the day
appeared this line:

ROGERS Rewrites and General Assignments.

Thus it was on a "general assignment* 7 that I covered the
first electrocution in Georgia. The year was 1924 ? and the

39

40 PEACHTREE PABADE

victim was a young Negro man from DeKalb County who
had been convicted of rape.

Ever witness an electrocution?

It is the most debasing spectacle in the category of man's
inhumanity to man. It is a remnant of the dark ages of which
mankind may well be ashamed. But, argue those in favor of
capital punishment, it is the only method of making sure that
a human mad dog is removed from society. They hold, and
with ample precedent, that with the pardon and parole
machinery as it is a 'life sentence" means only a few years
in prison if the accused has enough money to employ good
lawyers or enough influence otherwise to protect his interests.
But this is neither the time nor the place to argue the capital-
punishment issue.

The electrocution to which I refer took place in the old
state prison at Milledgeville, Georgia. On the morning of the
execution I went by the death cell to talk with the con-
demned man, who readily admitted his crime. He could give
no good reason for what he had done other than to insist that
something came over him all of a sudden and he couldn't
control his impulses.

The prison chaplain had done a good job of preparing the
victim for death. He appeared almost joyous in the belief that
the moment the switches were thrown and the lethal current
surged through his body he would be whisked immediately
inside the Pearly Gates for an eternity of bliss. He was very
calm. So far as I know he had been given no sedatives or
whisky to generate false courage. Without intending to be
sacrilegious, however, it must be reported that he was
definitely on a Heaven-bound jag.

Topsy Turner, at the time Atlanta's city electrician, had
supervised installation of the electric chair and also was
directing arrangements inside the death chamber. Wooden
boards had been placed on the floor and the witnesses were

REWRITES AND GENERAL ASSIGNMENTS 41

advised by Mr. Turner to place their feet on them as a matter
of precaution. "There's no telling what may happen when we
turn on the juice," he observed. This statement did little to
soothe jangled nerves.

When all was apparently in readiness, the condemned man
was led into the room and seated in the electric chair. His
left trouser leg had been slit so that an electrode could be
attached directly to his flesh above the calf. His head had
been shaved so that the head electrode, resembling a foot-
ball helmet, could make maximum contact. A sponge soaked
in salt water had been placed inside the helmet and the
victim was annoyed by the liquid running down into his
face. In a few minutes he had been strapped in the chair, and
those of us who were in the room nerved ourselves as best
we could for the ordeal. But all was not entirely in readiness.

Mr. Turner turned to a telephone that had been installed
in the death chamber and called the local electric power
plant to request that current to several factories in Milledge-
ville be cut off "until we get through electrocuting this
nigger/' The man in the chair writhed.

It was so arranged, Mr. Turner had explained previously,
that the current to the electric chair wouldn't go on until
the last of three switches had been pushed into place. Inas-
much as the three men manning the switches were instructed
to throw them simultaneously at a given signal the theory was
that no one would know who actually was responsible for
the final contact.

Finally, after everyone had worked up a roaring case of
jitters, Mr. Turner said, "Let ? er go!" and the switches were
slammed home. As the first charge of electricity hit the
Negro's body I thought he was going to fly right out of the
room. His body strained against the straps that bound him to
the chair, and seemed to quiver as the deadly juice shattered

42 PEACHTBEE PARADE

his brain and destroyed his nervous system. Then the current
was cut off and the body slumped in the chair.

"Let's give him another charge," Mr. Turner said and in-
structed the men at the switches to push them into place.
As contact was made once more, the body again seemed on
the point of leaping out of the chair but was restrained by
the straps and crumpled again when the electric connection
was broken.

Just before the switches were first thrown I took my watch
from my pocket with the intention of timing the length of
the electric shocks, but when I tried to make a reading my
hand was shaking so furiously that I couldn't even tell what
time of day it was.

Johnny Hammond, of The Macon Telegraph, was sitting
next to me and I asked him if he would hold his watch so we
could determine how long the current was applied. Johnny
could do no better than I.

"The hell with it," he muttered. "After this thing is over
we'll get together and agree on the length of the shocks.
Nobody will be the wiser." Nobody was.

When several minutes had elapsed after the last shock,
Mr. Turner called on a Milledgeville physician to step for-
ward and determine whether the condemned man was dead.
The physician, however, was none too eager, giving voice to
the theory that if enough electricity remained in the corpse
he might suffer severe shock when he applied the stetho-
scope. At length, however, he conquered his apprehension
and pronounced the man dead.

I had become so nauseated by the ghastly spectacle that
I didn't know whether I would be able to write my story,
but recovery was quicker than I had any reason to expect,
and in short order the piece was done and a bunch of us were
standing around in the office of the prison superintendent, a
large and kindly man.

BEWRITES AND GENERAL ASSIGNMENTS 43

"Well, boys," he said, "we've all been under a big strain.
Why don't you come over to my house and have some
dinner?"

Several of us accepted the superintendent's invitation, and
when we were ushered into the dining room, we found that
among the other culinary items on the table was an immense
platter of collard greens on which reposed a large and greasy
hunk of fat pork.

I took one look and asked to be excused and none too
soon. Somehow, with the stench of a barbecued human being
in my nostrils I didn't have much appetite for collard greens
and hog fat.

During the days when the Ku Klux Klan was rampant I
was assigned one night to go to Klan headquarters, at the
corner of Peachtree and Wesley Road, to interview some dig-
nitary of the organization who was reported to have arrived
recently from Texas.

Inasmuch as there was no rush about the thing I took a
trolley out Peachtree, got off at the proper stop, and walked
warily up to the front door of the headquarters building. As
I was ready to press a finger to the doorbell, I felt something
round and hard pressed to the small of my back.

"What do you want out here, buddy?" a soft but menacing
voice drawled.

"I'm a reporter for The Atlanta Journal" I stammered,
"and I'm here to interview Mr. Somebody-or-other."

"Now ain't that just dandy," the voice said. "But I've got
a better idea for you."

"What's that?" I inquired.

"Why don't you just turn around and walk out to the street,
cross over, and catch the next streetcar back to town and
leave us alone?" he suggested with a rising inflection and a

44 PEACHTKEE PARADE

little extra pressure on whatever it was he had rammed into
my backbone.

And that's exactly what I did.

During its rampaging years the Ku Klux Klan had as one
of its principal targets the Catholic church. It may be divine
justice, the eternal equity of things, or just pure chance, but
the headquarters building just referred to is now the rectory
of the Christ the King Catholic Church.

Sic semper something.

The Ku Klux Klan of clouded memory had its rebirth as
a result of the showing of the motion picture, The Birth of a
'Nation. It aroused fresh racial animosities in the South and
stirred the baser passions of the lower class of white people
in many parts of the country.

I am convinced, however, that when Colonel William
Joseph Simmons first organized the reborn Klan he was im-
pelled by purely idealistic motives. I think it was with rever-
ence for the night-riding zealots of Reconstruction days that
he re-created the modern organization in the image of the
old and hoped it would bring back to flower some of the
shattered ideals of the pre-Civil-War South.

But Colonel Simmons had reckoned without the greed of
men who discovered that by selling bed sheets (out of which
the principal part of the costumes was fashioned) at ten
dollars a copy there was a lot of money to be made if
enough members could be recruited. There were other
emoluments, of course, but the bed-sheet racket was enough
to attract the sharpshooters.

Toward the close of the Simmons reign as Imperial Wizard
I accompanied a deputy sheriff who went to the Simmons
home to serve some legal papers. The Colonel was in a mellow

REWEITES AND GENERAL ASSIGNMENTS 45

mood and seemed not the least perturbed by the service of
legal documents on him,

"Just put those papers on a table, sir," he said to the
deputy sheriff, "and then you and the gentleman from the
press join me in a small libation/'

The deputy sheriff and the gentleman from the press
declined the invitation and left a disillusioned old man alone
with the shattered remnants of a lofty dream that had wound
up in the garbage can.

Phil Fox was a Texas newspaperman who came over to
Peachtree to handle press relations for one of the warring
Ku Klux Klan factions. Phil was an easygoing, affable fellow
who soon made friends with the newspaper crowd. His atti-
tude toward the Klan and its activities was somewhat on the
tongue-in-cheek side, and this further endeared him to mem-
bers of the press.

But things weren't going so smoothly for his faction of
the Elan, and Phil took to the bottle. It was while coming off
a bender that he became convinced that a lawyer named
Captain William Coburn was doing Mm wrong and action
should be taken. So, suiting action to thought, Phil Fox
entered Captain Cobum's downtown office one afternoon,
faced him across a desk, and fired six .45-caliber slugs into
his body.

Phil was indicted and tried for the murder of Captain
Coburn. As the trial began in Fulton Superior Court, a fore-
sighted judge ordered that all persons who entered the court-
room be searched for firearms and other weapons. The first
day deputy sheriffs and bailiffs collected a washtub full of
assorted pistols, revolvers, and switch-blade knives.

Feeling during the trial was intense as one wing of the
Klan sought to save its man and the other faction fought with

46 PEACHTREE PARADE

equal vigor to have him convicted. The result was that Phil
Fox was found guilty and sentenced to life imprisonment.

Several years after the trial I was at the state prison to
cover another electrocution (by then I had become The
Journals electrocution editor) and had several pleasant visits
with Phil Fox, who, being a man of exceptional abilities and
superior intelligence, was practically running the prison.

( I use the term "running the prison" in its best sense. Phil
was no crook. He was just a fellow who had been caught up
in a fever of madness and done something for which he was
paying the price. The superintendent of the prison discovered
Phil could be trusted and continued to turn more and more
duties over to him. "He does more and better work than any-
one else around this place" was the way the superintendent
put it)

Phil seemed to enjoy the visiting newspapermen, and they
treated him like the long-lost friend he was. He helped the
telegraphers install their stuff, arranged for typewriters and
copy paper for the reporters, and just before we were heading
for the death chamber, he drew me aside.

"If this thing hits you too hard," he said, "let me know and
111 be glad to file your story. Boy, it would feel good to write
a story for Page One again."

My nerve held, however, and it was not necessary to take
advantage of his offer.

Phil served about ten years and then was pardoned. A
short time after he had been released from prison I was trans-
acting some business in the Fulton National Bank on
Marietta Street. As I turned from the teller's cage, I saw Phil
standing near the front door with his back toward me. I
walked up behind him quietly and laid my hand on his
shoulder. At the contact one would have thought that my
hand was a live electric wire. He must have leaped a foot
from the floor, and when he came down, his face was ashen

REWRITES AND GENERAL ASSIGNMENTS 47

and lie was trembling violently. Seeing who it was that had
touched him, he regained control quickly but not before
advising me, "Don't ever again lay your hand on the shoulder
of a man who has been in prison. It scares the daylights out
of him."
He wasn't kidding.

Taking part in many of the most important criminal trials
during my "Rewrites and General Assignments" years was
Reuben R. Arnold, one of the most impressive and attractive
figures ever to grace a courtroom. Mr. Arnold was not
primarily a criminal lawyer, but his talents were so pro-
nounced in that field that he frequently was pulled away
from his more lucrative civil practice to take a hand in the
"Guilty or Not Guilty" game.

It was during a murder trial that Mr. Arnold called Solicitor
General John A. Boykin and Assistant Solicitor General Ed
Stephens "a pair of bloodthirsty head-hunters." It was true
that the prosecuting team of Boykin and Stephens went after
convictions with what might be considered more than routine
vigor.

"Gentlemen of the jury," Mr. Arnold said during the trial,
"Mr. Boykin is absolutely relentless in the prosecution of de-
fendants before this bar, and Ed Stephens well, Ed is so
bloodthirsty that I believe he would eat a man."

After a recess had been taken for lunch, Mr. Arnold and
Mr. Stephens met in a corridor of the courthouse. The latter
had taken no particular offense at the remarks of the defense
attorney, and if you cover courts long enough you will learn
that lawyers who appear almost on the point of fisticuffs in
the courtroom frequently laugh about how vicious they were
and what a good show they put on for the jury.

"Well, Ed," Mr. Arnold inquired, "did you have a good
lunch?"

48 PEACHTREE PARADE

"Excellent," reported Mr. Stephens.

"What did you eat?" Mr. Arnold asked.

"A raw beefsteak/" replied the Assistant Solicitor General
with a fiendish leer on his face.

Mr. Arnold, usually suave and polished in the courtroom,
was not always as respectful of the bench as he might have
been. In the heat of battle he was sometimes inclined to be
highhanded and not as subservient as some judges think a
barrister should be.

It was during one of Mr. Arnold's more spirited sessions
that a judge in the Fulton Superior Court called him on the
carpet.

"Mr. Arnold," the irate jurist thundered, "you have about
exhausted my patience. From your demeanor I consider that
you are showing contempt for this court/ 7

"Quite the contrary, Your Honor," responded Mr. Arnold
in his most engaging manner. "I am doing my best to conceal
it."

William Schley Howard was another vivid personality I
encountered often in my "General Assignment* days. He was
a lawyer of rare forensic abilities and one of the finest actors
I ever saw pn or off the stage. If a case began going against
him, he could become visibly ill in a matter of minutes. He
would turn pale, perspiration would pop out on his fore-
head, his hands would tremble, and it was a hardhearted
judge, indeed, who would not declare a recess at the request
of the apparently stricken attorney.

I covered many trials in which Mr. Howard was the attor-
ney for the defense, and never once did I know him to
represent a client whom he had not known from infancy
and whose mother wasn't an honest, God-fearing, Christian
woman.

It was Mr. Howard's proud boast that he had defended an

REWRITES AND GENERAL ASSIGNMENTS 49

even two hundred clients charged with murder, and not one
of them had paid the extreme penalty.

"One of my clients was sentenced to be hanged," he would
confess apologetically, "but he tried to escape from the jail
in which he was being held to await execution, and a guard
drilled him with a squirrel gun."

After this confession Mr. Howard would add, with a
twinkle in his eyes: "This didn't do my client any good, but
it certainly helped my record/*

Mr. Howard served for a time as a member of the U.S.
House of Representatives from Georgia's Fifth Congressional
District and later lost a heartbreaking race for the United
States Senate. As he told it, the gifted attorney had the bless-
ing of the White House in his senatorial race and was win-
ning hands down until President Woodrow Wilson changed
his mind and threw the weight of his influence behind Mr.
Howard's opponent.

"It was the most disgraceful double cross in the history of
American politics," Mr. Howard would say and thereupon
pay his respects to the lamented Chief Executive in words of
one syllable that were frequently joined together by hyphens.

One of Mr. Howard's most embarrassing moments came
during the trial of a small-time gambler named Jack Lance,
who was accused of murdering Bert Donaldson, a former
confidence man who was, at the time he was shot to death
in the Georgian Terrace Hotel, an investigator in the office
of Solicitor General Boykin.

The Solicitor General had an elderly female witness on
the stand who was testifying that shortly before Donaldson
was murdered she had heard a group of men plotting his
death. There was one man in particular, she said, who was
the ringleader of the conspiracy.

"Is that man in this courtroom?" Mr. Boykin asked.

"He shore is," replied the witness with some heat.

50 PEACHTREE PABADE

"Could you step down from the witness stand and point
him out?" Mr. Boykin inquired as he closed in for the kill.

"I shore could, 7 ' the eager witness answered.

She then stepped from the stand and began peering into
the faces of people seated nearby. There was no hesitation
as she assumed a defiant stance in front of Mr. Howard and,
with an accusing finger shaking under his nose, declaimed
with a touch of melodrama:

"Tha/s the man!"

The Bert Donaldson murder is one of the great unsolved
mysteries in Atlanta's annals of crime. Although it hap-
pened more than a quarter of a century ago, it is no nearer
solution today than it was the morning a horrified chamber-
maid found his lifeless body on the floor of his hotel room.

A Negro elevator boy may have heard the two blasts
from the gun that hit the ill-starred sleuth in the head and
back, but at the time he thought the noise came from a
backfiring automobile. The death room was registered in
the name of a mysterious "Mr. Sands, of Macon, Georgia,"
but he was never identified further as anything more than
a phony name on a hotel register.

An odd feature of the slaying was the fact that, although
Bert Donaldson could not Lave been earning more than
a very modest salary as an investigator for Solicitor Boykin,
a fortune in cash and bonds was found on his person. Rob-
bery certainly wasn't the motive but where did Bert get
the money?

Investigation revealed that Bert left Ms home the night
he was killed in response to a telephone call. But if he was
called by someone he feared, why did he go? Why did he
take tibe money? Did he think lie could buy off the killer,
or killers?

As the crime was reconstructed Bert Donaldson was

KEWRTTES AND GENERAL ASSIGNMENTS 51

killed either by or in the presence of someone lie knew and
with whom he was on friendly terms. This was adduced by
investigators, who pointed out that he was shot in the
back of the head and in the small of the back soon after
entering the hotel room and passing by a clothes closet.
The theorizing was that Bert entered the room, walked past
the closet to speak to someone presumably sitting on the
bed, but before greetings could be exchanged a gunman
hidden in the closet let him have it.

The gunman, by the way, must have been a patient char-
acter because the butts of almost two packages of cigarettes
were found on the floor beneath the chair in which he sat
awaiting the arrival of his prey. He must have been a little
nervous, too, as he sat there waiting for the moment to pull
the trigger.

In the years since Bert Donaldson was murdered, it has
been pretty well agreed by those who are supposed to know
about such matters that a member of the old Floyd Wood-
ward confidence mob that preyed on suckers in Atlanta
during the early twenties hired a gunman to come in and
do the job.

Several students of local crime have told me that Bert
Donaldson's "friend" who was sitting on the bed when the
former was blasted had been well known in Atlanta crime
circles. The smart boys will even go so far as to guess who
hired the gunman but can they be sure? Obviously the
authorities didn't know or they would have arrested some-
bodywouldn't they?

Why was Bert Donaldson killed? I've listened to several
theories, but the one that makes the most sense is this: Bert
was hired by John Boykin to track down members of the
Woodward mob who had been scattered when the lid was
blown off their racket by the Solicitor General. Bert, a
former con man himself, had little trouble running them

52 PEACHTREE PARADE

down, and when arrests were made on the fugitive war-
rants, it would be necessary for the victims to make bail
and then skip town, thus forfeiting the money that had been
put up. This was annoying and expensive, and some bright
boy figured that if Bloodhound Bert were knocked off, the
heat would die down. And that's the way it worked out.

But what about making someone pay for murdering Bert
Donaldson? Well, no one has yet. Jack Lance, as previously
mentioned, was tried for the murder. Furthermore, he was
convicted and given the death penalty.

That looks somewhat final, doesn't it? But you ain't heard
nothing yet.

After Lance was convicted an appeal was made to the
higher courts, and a new trial was ordered. In the ordinary
course of events you would expect Lance to be tried again,
wouldn't you?

Well, no such thing happened. Lance not only never was
tried again, but neither was anyone else. Almost a score of
small-time crooks around town who had been caught in the
police net and indicted for complicity in the Donaldson
murder were turned loose and that was the end of it. No
more trials, no more arrests, no nothing.

During this general period there were several spectacular
murders that were never solved.

A taxicab driver named Charlie Dorsey was gunned to
death, presumably by a fare, but no one could be abso-
lutely sure because there was no conviction of anyone as
a result of the crime.

Russell Compton, a successful young businessman, was
shot to death early one evening as he got in his automobile
to drive home from his downtown office. No one was ever
convicted in connection with the killing.

I was covering a murder trial in the Fulton County Court-

REWRITES AND GENERAL ASSIGNMENTS 53

house the night Compton was slain. A few minutes after
the jury came in with its verdict, I heard that a man had
been killed and his body taken to the mortuary of Harry G.
Poole, which was not far from the courthouse.

I hotfooted it over to the Poole establishment and went
into a room where the body of a man later identified as
Russell Compton was lying on a table. Even at this stage
of the investigation the authorities were baffled. They
thought he had been shot but they couldn't find out where.
After an inch-by-inch examination of the body it was dis-
covered that a .22-caliber slug had penetrated Compton's
skull just back of and above the right ear, and there was only
a tiny blue mark left by the entering bullet.

Compton hadn't shed one drop of bloodand the subse-
quent investigation didn't shed one beam of light on the
identity of the killer.

In the life of any big city, of course, there are unsolved
murders. It is foolish to argue that there is no such thing
as a "perfect crime/' There are plenty of them, but because
they are "perfect" or the killer is fantastically lucky, no one
is ever brought to account.

For example, there is the Refoule case of recent memory.

Margaret Alston was an Atlanta socialite who went to
Paris to study in the Sorbonne some eighteen years ago.
While there she met and fell in love with a dashing young
artist named Paul Refoule. When Peggy, as Miss Alston
was known to her friends, came home she was followed
by young Refoule, who wooed and won her. Their marriage
was an outstanding event of Atlanta's 1937 social season.

A year after the marriage their son, Jon, was bora. With
the war clouds gathering over Europe Paul Refoule an-
swered his homeland's call and took his little family to

54 PEACHTREE PARADE

France, where tie was commissioned in the French Army.
Peggy and Jon went to live with Paul's parents.

The young artist was captured at Dunkirk, and after
being imprisoned in a concentration camp in Poland, he
finally escaped and made hft way to Orleans, where he
found his family intact. In 1945 the Refoules returned to
Atlanta.

It wasn't long after Paul Refoule's return to the home
town of his wife that he obtained employment as a teacher
at the High Museum of Art and at Oglethorpe University.
He was happy in his work, and it seemed that fate, which
had been so unkind, was ready to make amends.

In a somewhat venturesome spirit Paul Refoule under-
took a challenging project, the conversion of an old stone
mill on Howell Mill Road into a studio and home. He and
Peggy were exceedingly happy that the venture had turned
out so well.

But fate was preparing the cruelest blow of all for the
Refoules. Nine days after they moved into their new home
the lifeless body of Peggy Refoule was found on a sand bar
in Peachtree Creek, which flowed behind the Refoule home.
There was an angry welt about her neck, and the police,
in reconstructing the crime, came to the conclusion that she
had been hanged from a nearby tree (from which they
found a bloodstained length of clothesline suspended) and
the body had subsequently been cut down and placed on
the sand bar.

Who had killed Peggy Refoule?

The police, with nothing better to do, immediately sus-
pected Paul Refoule. For a month he was subjected to in-
tense interrogation, but they could not shake his alibi. He
had established a timetable as to his whereabouts the day of
the murder that precluded his having been at home when
his wife was hanged.

KEWKITES AND GENERAL ASSIGNMENTS 55

A month to the day after Mrs. Refoule had been found
dead, charges of immoral conduct with a girl model were
lodged against Refoule, and he was released in $10,000
bail. This charge later was dropped at the request of the
Solicitor General of the Atlanta Judicial Circuit, who said
the witness on whom a conviction would depend could
not be produced.

The bedeviled Frenchman filed charges in Federal Dis-
trict Court alleging violation of his civil rights. His con-
tention was upheld, and further excessive interrogatories
were forbidden. On February 13, 1948, Paul Refoule died
in the Emory University Hospital of, among other things,
a broken heart.

Who killed Peggy Refoule?

Eight years after her death the puzzle remains unsolved.
So far as I can learn, there is no active investigation under
way in any further attempt to find the answer.

But Peggy Refoule is dead, and somebody killed her. For
lack of any better solution it may be suggested that she
came to her death at the hands of some stranger who was
passing by, wandered into the Refoule home, and killed
without design or motive. In which case it is no wonder the
murderer hasn't been revealed and it could have happened
that way.

Young lawyers sometimes get stage fright during their
first few engagements in the courtroom. It was such a
neophyte who startled all present one morning in Fulton
Superior Court by demanding of a witness:

"What is your name? Answer me yes or no"!

It was this same banister during this same trial who re-
quested that the judge excuse the jury from the room.

"There is matter I wish to discuss with Your Honor," he
explained, "that I don't think the jury should hear."

56 PEACHTREE PABADE

There was some delay while the jury was being hustled
out of the courtroom, but as soon as the twelve good men
and true were out of earshot, the judge said to the young
attorney, "You may proceed now. What was it you wanted
to discuss with me?"

The young lawyer gave the judge a blank look.

"I suppose you might as well call the jury back," he said
to the bench, "because iVe forgotten what the hell it was
I wanted to discuss with you,"

A young Negro girl appeared before a judge in the Fulton
Superior Court to press charges of rape against a young
Negro man. She told a rather vivid story with unvarnished
details of the harrowing experience.

"Are you sure this boy raped you?" the Solicitor General
asked.

"Yassuh," the prosecuting witness replied firmly. "And I
ought to know 'cause he's been rapin* me off an* on all sum-
mah."

M. Emile Coue created quite a stir in France with his
"Every day in every way I am getting better and better"
approach to curing human ills. It was M. Coue's theory that
if one would only repeat this mumbo-jumbo a sufficient num-
ber of times a day the eyes would clear, the digestive proc-
esses would improve, and a general sense of well-being
would result.

It was with a kind of aura surrounding him that he made
a pilgrimage to the United States and in the course of his
travels came to Peachtree. My assignment was to interview
M. Coue and report on his personality, his effect on people,
his methods, etc.

As I arrived at the healer s suite in the Georgian Terrace
Hotel, I could hear his heavily accented voice repeating,

REWRITES AND GENERAL ASSIGNMENTS 57

"Every day in every way I am getting better and better.**
Just how this slogan might sound if translated into French
I do not know, but in broken English it became tiresome.

"I am from the press/* I told M. Coue, "and I would like
to have an interview/*

"Oui! Oui!" M. Coue exclaimed. "Just repeat, 'Every day
in every way I am getting better and better.* '*

"I am already better," I tried to explain. "I couldn't stand
it if I were any better. I want an interviewsomething for
the newspaper.**

"Oui! Oui!'* M. Coue came right back. "Just repeat, "Every
day in every way I am getting better and better.* '*

"Non, non, non,'* I interposed. "I am a newspaper re-
porter. I do not wish to be any better. I am not here to
receive a treatment. I am here to give you one. I*m fine
[beating my chest]. Magnifique! [A word I picked up in
freshman French at Emory.] 5 *

"Oui! Oui!" M. Coue continued to coo. "Just repeat, 'Every
day in every way I am getting better and better.* "

I saw it was no use. With my limited French and M.
Coue's restricted English we were going around in a circle.
I wanted an interview; he wanted to give a treatment.

And that's the way it was when I finally gave up and re-
turned to the city room.

"Did you get a good interview?*' the city editor wanted
to know.

"I don*t think so," I told him, '"but, believe it or not, every
day in every way I am getting better and better.*'

I knocked on the door of the hotel suite that the room
clerk had told me was occupied by Harry Houdini, probably
the greatest exponent of black magic, legerdemain, sleight
of hand, or whatever you wish to call it that the world has
ever known.

58 PEACHTREE PARADE

"Come in!" shouted a voice.

I opened the door and saw a man of medium size on his
hands and knees peering under a chest of drawers.

"Practicing a little yoga?" I asked.

"No/ 7 replied the master of escape and the relentless foe
of spiritualism. "I have dropped my collar button, and it
has rolled under the chest of drawers I think."

Then his piercing eyes twinkled, and he continued, "You
know, I am convinced that the most baffling feat of magic
ever devised is "The Disappearing Collar Button/ *

Dunninger, the mental wizard, was telling me during
an interview about an experience he once had with Houdini
and Howard Thurston, also one of the world's greatest ma-
gicians. Dunninger, it seems, was playing an engagement in
a New York theater on a bitterly cold night when his two
old friends called on him backstage. They complimented
him on his performance and otherwise made themselves
affable.

"As soon as I was dressed," Dunninger related, "I sug-
gested to Houdini and Thurston that inasmuch as my auto-
mobile was parked nearby I would be happy to drive them
to their hotels.

"When we reached the car, however, I discovered that I
had locked my keys inside. I told my friends this was a
fine thing: three of the world's greatest magicians together
and none of them could open a locked automobile/*

Then, according to Dunninger, Howard Thurston pro-
posed that if the other two would kindly step aside so they
could not observe his technique he would open the car.

"We stood aside," Dunninger related, "and left Thurston
alone with the machine. After about five minutes he called
out that he had made no headway whatsoever and was
giving up. Whereupon Houdini said that if Thurston and I

REWBITES AND GENERAL ASSIGNMENTS 59

would stand away lie would be glad to open the automobile.
1 can get out of anything in the world/ lie said, *so maybe
I can get into this tin can/ "

Houdini, according to the Dunninger report, stuck to
the job about ten minutes before confessing that he was
stopped.

"What did you do then?" I asked the master of thought
transference.

"It was extremely cold," Dunninger said, "and Houdini,
Thurston, and I were freezing. So, like any other dope who
locks his keys up in his car, I found a rock and knocked
out a window. From then on it was easy."

Magic is simple once you know how it's done.

Andres Segovia, the distinguished Spanish guitarist, gen-
erally considered to be the world's greatest performer on
the African harp, was in Atlanta to play a concert in the
auditorium of the Atlanta Woman's Club.

At the time, Senor Segovia spoke no English and so our
interview was strained through an interpreter. It was about
as satisfactory as any interview can be when the two prin-
cipals don't speak each other's language. Among other
things, however, I learned that the celebrated musician was
to be the guest of honor during the afternoon at a garden
party given by one of the ladies prominent in the organiza-
tion sponsoring his appearance.

What immediately follows was relayed to me by a person
who was present at the party, and I assume her report was
authentic. After the distinguished guitarist had downed
several beakers of heavily loaded punch, the hostess sent
word to Senor Segovia (through his interpreter, of course)
that if he consumed any more punch he likely wouldn't be
able to play that evening. Whereupon Senor Segovia sent

60 PEACHTREE PARADE

word to the hostess (through his interpreter, naturally) that
the more punch he drank the better he played.

I do know that on the evening in question Senor Segovia
played like an angel, but there was just one small hitch.
He brought out onto the stage a little wooden block on
which to rest his left foot so as to bring the guitar to the
proper level for playing while seated.

All during the conceit he kept feeling around with his
left foot for the little wooden block, but as far as I could
determine, he hasn't found it yet.

Drew Pearson, the nationally syndicated columnist and
expert on what goes on behind the closed doors of the na-
tion's capital, was in Atlanta on a lecture tour. He was stop-
ping at the Biltmore Hotel, so I toddled out to determine, if
possible, what was cooking on the Washington Merry-Go-
Round.

Mr. Pearson is a charming and well-informed man, and
our conversation was pleasant and productive of good inter-
view material. Being a newspaperman himself, he knew
what I wanted in the way of information and practically
interviewed himself.

There was just one thing, though, that made this inter-
view a little different from others I have had with famous
people.

Mr. Pearson was dressed in street clothes, but before
the Q. and A. stuff was completed, he looked at his watch
and said it was time for him to put on his lecturing outfit.

"Sorry to interrupt the interview,*' he said, "but if you'll
just step out into the hall while I change my trousers you
may come back in and well complete our chat/'

It was the first time I was ever asked to wait outside a
man's hotel room while he changed his pants, but well,

REWRITES AND GENERAL ASSIGNMENTS 61

there's no telling what you'll run into on a newspaper as-
signment.

This experience was quite different from the manner in
which I was received by John Charles Thomas, the great
concert and operatic baritone. I called Mr. Thomas from the
lobby of the Biltmore and told him I was coming up. When
I rapped on his door he yelled, "Come in!" in a voice that
almost shook the foundations of the hotel.

I opened the door and my first view of John Charles
Thomas was as this husky, partially bald man stood in the
middle of his hotel room in his shorts.

Oh, well.

Robert C. Ruark, the poor man's Ernest Hemingway and
latest authority on Africa and the Mau Mau, was in town
gathering material for a magazine article about Margaret
Mitchell. Having previously met Mr. Ruark in New York,
I was happy when he asked if I would give him a hand with
some aspects of his assignment. I introduced him to key
people and helped him line up a few interviews.

During the course of his stay in Atlanta I took him out
to the home of Albert Love, the publisher, because I thought
these two gentlemen might find each other interesting.
I was not mistaken.

After Mr. Ruark and Mr. Love had discussed several mat-
ters of mutual interest they fell to talking about hunting.
Mr. Love, besides being a publisher of books and whatnot,
is an avid huntsman, and he told Mr. Ruark of plain and
fancy shooting he had done in his native South Carolina.

"Very interesting," Mr. Ruark commented without too
much enthusiasm, "but I find duck hunting in Louisiana
more to my liking than anywhere else. As a matter of fact
we make a very sporting thing of it."

"In what way?" Mr. Love asked.

62 PEACHTREE PABADE

"Well/ 7 replied Mr. Ruark, "we never shoot at single ducks.
That's too easy. We wait until they are crossing each other in
flight and then get both birds with one shot."

Mr. Love's lower jaw fell on his chest and the subject
of bird hunting was abandoned for the remainder of the
visit.

Once upon a time there was a governor of a state hemmed
in by Tennessee, North and South Carolina, Florida, and
Alabama who operated what the newspapers vulgarly called
"a pardon racket/'

It was more or less common knowledge that a friend or
relative languishing in prison or the chain gang could be
snatched from durance vile by making satisfactory financial
arrangements with the Chief Executive.

And so it was that on a certain day a prosperous fanner
called on His ExceEency to arrange, if possible, ways and
means of springing his brother from a work camp in the
northern part of the state.

"Governor/' said the farmer, who was a plain-spoken sort
of fellow, "I have come to buy my brother out of penal servi-
tude. What will you charge me to turn him loose?"

The Chief Executive assumed an air of injured innocence.

"If it weren't for your apparent anxiety to have your
brother regain his freedom and your sincere interest in
his behalf, I would have you thrown out of my office for
such an insulting remark," the Governor replied with some
heat. "Certainly you do not think that pardons are for sale
like livestock!"

"Well/' responded the fanner, "IVe heard certain things
that led me to believe we could do business, but I suppose
there was no truth in them/'

The Governor's manner became more conciliatory after

REWRITES AND GENERAL ASSIGNMENTS 63

this statement, and in fact the atmosphere cleared com-
pletely in a few moments.

"By the way/' His Excellency said after a short silence,
"I have a mule in my possession that I would be willing to
sell you for about twenty-five hundred dollars."

"What in the hell would I want with a twenty-five-
hundred-dollar mule?" the farmer asked in astonishment.

"Well," responded the Governor in a most confidential
manner, "it would be an excellent animal on which your
brother could ride home from the chain gang."

The Fate of Leo M. Frank

ALTHOUGH i DID NOT WORK ON THE STORY (IT HAPPENED A
little before my time) , I have for many years been fascinated
by the tragic fate of Leo M. Frank. In this account there
may be some things not previously written about the sen-
sational affair that attracted national attention and is still
remembered as one of the most widely publicized episodes
in the history of crime in America.

Confederate Memorial Day in 1913 was hot and sultry.
Brooding clouds had hung sullenly over Atlanta that fate-
ful Saturday.

Britt Craig, a police reporter for The Atlanta Constitution,
had spent the day actively and along about midnight snug-
gled into the back seat of a police car for a quick nap. The

64

THE FATE OF LEO M. FKANK 65

police station was active with only routine matters as Mr.
Craig enjoyed his sleep.

But when Mr. Craig awoke he found himself in the middle
of one of the most sensational crime stories ever to break
anywhere, any time. The automobile in which he had been
napping was the one used by police in rushing to the Na-
tional Pencil factory, at 37-39 South Forsyth Street, to in-
vestigate a report that the body of a young girl had been
found in the basement of the building.

The girl was identified as Mary Phagan, a fourteen-year-
old employee of the pencil factory. It was obvious that she
had been murdered, but there was no immediate clue to
the identity of the slayer.

Britt Craig called his paper and by stopping the presses
a small item telling of the tragedy made the front page of
the late Sunday editions of The Constitution.

Because the story broke at so late an hour The Journal
did not have it in the Sunday edition but was well on the
ball by Monday.

The Journal's first story of the Phagan murder said:

"Detectives expect to wring the secret of Mary Phagan's
murder from Newt Lee, Negro night watchman at the Na-
tional Pencil factory/'

First mention of Leo M. Frank, who was subsequently
to become the storm center of the Mary Phagan murder,
was made in line sixteen of The Journals story.

"L. M. Frank, superintendent of the pencil factory, was
questioned by the police and spent the better part of Mon-
day morning at police headquarters," the story recounted.
"But he was not placed under arrest and at noon returned
home.**

Police and newspapermen ascertained that Mary Phagan
had entered the pencil factory about noon on April 26 to
get her week's wages and was never seen alive again.

66 PEACHTREE PABADE

Suspicion immediately fastened on Newt Lee, the Negro
night watchman. Physicians who examined the body of
Mary Phagan reported that she had been criminally as-
saulted and strangled, but the city physician, Dr. J. W.
Hurt, could not say for sure whether she had been assaulted
before being strangled.

On May 9 a coroner's jury recommended that Frank and
Newt Lee be held for the grand jury.

This was the first intimation that Frank was under sus-
picion. He was to all outward appearances an industrious,
efficient businessman. He was born in Paris, Texas, April 17,
1884, but at the age of three months was taken by his parents
to live in Brooklyn. He was graduated from Cornell Univer-
sity in 1906, came to Atlanta in August, 1908, and not long
thereafter was married to Miss Lucille Selig, an attractive
member of one of Atlanta's most substantial families. He
was known as a devoted family man.

But the heavy finger of fate was already pointing at Leo
Frank. On May 24, almost a month after Mary Phagan's
dead body was found in the basement of the pencil fac-
tory, Jim Conley, a Negro sweeper at the factory, entered
the case. He told police he had written, at Frank's dictation,
a series of notes that had been found near Mary Phagan's
body. He confessed to having helped Frank move the girl's
body from the office on the second floor of the factory build-
ing to the basement and made other damaging statements
including one to the effect that Frank was not the respect-
able husband he was supposed to be but was promiscuous
with the girls in his employ.

On the same day, May 24, that Conley's statement was
made public, Leo Frank was indicted by the Fulton County
Grand Jury on a charge of murder.

Frank, slender, bespectacled, high-strung, was crushed
by the turn of events.

THE FATE OF LEO M. FRANK 67

"It is terrible for an innocent man to be charged with
a most damnable crime," he said in a statement. "Even if
he is cleared he can never get over the fact that he was
charged and tried for the crime/'

Frank went on trial in the Fulton Superior Court with
Judge L. S. Roan presiding. He was represented by Luther
Z. Rosser and Reuben R. Arnold, two stalwarts of the At-
lanta bar. Opposing them for the state was Solicitor General
Hugh M. Dorsey.

The trial took more than a month for testimony and argu-
ment. The star witness for the state was Jim Conley. He was
on the stand sixteen hours undergoing the most penetrating
cross-examination. Rosser and Arnold tried time and again
to trip him by every stratagem of the legal art, but all they
got was the same story over and over again. He had served
as "lookout" for Frank while he received Mary Phagan in his
office. . . . Frank had killed the girl. . . . He had helped him

carry her body from the office to the basement That was

his story and he stuck to it.

Besides attacking the credibility of Jim Conley the at-
torneys for the defense made much of the fact that on the
afternoon of the murder Leo Frank had spent four or five
hours doing the most involved sort of bookkeeping. They
contended that a man who had just assaulted and murdered
a young girl couldn't have done it.

The trial was conducted in a courthouse ringed by bitter
partisans. Racial hatreds were at white heat. Here was a
Jew accused by a Negro of raping and murdering a young
gentile girl. Attorneys were threatened. Officers of the court
were fearful of what might happen.

Then, on August 25, 1913, the jury brought in its verdict:

"Guilty."

The next day Judge Roan sentenced Leo Frank to be

68 PEACHTREE PARADE

hanged October 10, 1913, in the Fulton County jail by Sheriff
Wheeler Mangum.

That, according to routine procedure, should have been
that. But there intervened one of the most determined legal
fights in the history of the American courts as Luther Rosser
and Reuben Arnold exhausted every resource to save their
client. The U.S. Supreme Court, appealed to as a last re-
sort, declined to interfere in the case.

Then, on June 21, 1915, a thunderbolt struck. Governor
John M. Slaton, one of Georgia's most distinguished citizens
and a man of impeccable integrity, commuted Frank's death
sentence to life imprisonment!

Before releasing the text of his commutation order Gover-
nor Slaton had directed that Frank be transferred from the
Fulton County jail to the state prison at Milledgeville,
Georgia, because he feared violence might follow his de-
cision.

Governor Slaton had not misjudged the temper of the
people. Maddened mobs formed and marched out Peachtree
Road to the Slaton residence, and only the resolute resistance
of the authorities prevented bloodshed.

In his commutation order Governor Slaton said:

"There is a territory l)eyond a reasonable doubt and ab-
solute certainty* for which the law provides in allowing
life imprisonment instead of execution. Two judges of the
Supreme Court of Georgia doubted. Two judges of the Su-
preme Court of the United States doubted. One of the three
prison commissioners doubted."

And in commenting on his decision Governor Slaton said:

"I would rather be plowing in a field than to feel for the
rest of my life that I had that man's [Frank's] blood on my
hands. Feeling as I do about this case I would be a mur-
derer if I allowed that man to hang."

THE FATE OF LEO M. FRANK 69

Governor Slaton's decision had been a bitter one. He had
served with distinction as governor and had every right to
expect that in time he might win election to the United
States Senate. He was a man of great ability and was looked
upon as a coming man in Georgia and national politics.
He knew that by commuting the sentence of Leo M. Frank
he was placing a revolver to his temple and blowing out his
political brains.

But he saw his duty clearly and did it.

The night on which he made his crucial decision to com-
mute Frank's sentence, he remained up quite late wrestling
with the problem. Finally, his mind made up, he ascended
the stairs of his home to seek his bed.

"What did you decide, Jack?" Mrs. Slaton asked.

"I am commuting Frank's sentence even though it may
cost my life/' he told her.

With wifely pride in her courageous husband Mrs. Slaton
said to him:

"I would rather be the widow of a brave man than the
wife of a coward."

Scurrilous rumors had been circulated about Governor
Slaton. Among them was a report that he had been paid
$1,000,000 by the Jews of America to commute the sentence.

But no one who knew the Governor ever seriously con-
sidered this rumor for a moment. He was a highly successful
attorney; his wife was wealthy in her own right; he had
everything to gain and nothing to lose by letting the law
take its course.

But in the iron fiber of this brave man was something that
would not allow him to float along with the tide when he
entertained so deep a conviction that there was "reasonable
doubt" in the case and that if he did not intervene an inno-
cent man might be sacrificed on the altars of prejudice. In

70 PEACHTREE PARADE

the circumstances,, lie felt that life imprisonment was a suf-
ficient punishment.

But Leo Frank was not to benefit from Governor Slaton's
courageous act. In the state prison he was set upon by a
prisoner named William Green, who slashed his throat with
a knife. Although grievously wounded Frank did not die.

But as the mists lifted from a spot some two miles east
of Marietta, Georgia, on the morning of August 17, 1915,
the body of Leo M. Frank hung limply from a limb of an
oak tree. Sometime during the night of August 16 he had
been spirited out of the state prison and taken to a spot not
far from the cemetery where Mary Phagan's body was in-
terred, and hanged.

As he hung with a rope around his neck and his hands
manacled in front of him it could be seen that the angry
wound made by William Green's knife had been pulled
open, lending a further ghastliness to the scene.

Who lynched Leo Frank?

No one knows. Members of that infamous band have kept
their secret well. But it is known that several automobiles
filled with men rode with the wind that August night from
Milledgeville to Marietta, where the caravan of death dis-
charged its passenger.

It is to be presumed that the mobsmen did not encounter
much resistance when they went into the state prison at
Milledgeville to claim their victim, because no one suffered
bodily injury of any kind. It is generally conceded that the
lynch mob was made up of substantial citizens rather than
the usual riffraff customarily found in such gangs. They ap-
parently had influence.

One story has it that while the mob was transporting
Frank from Milledgeville he complained of being cold in-
asmuch as he had been taken from the prison wearing noth-

THE FATE OF LEO M. FRANK 71

ing but pajamas. He asked one of the men with whom he
was riding for a drink of whisky to ward off the chill. A can-
vass was made, according to the roundabout account I
heard, and not a drop of liquor was to be found in the en-
tire caravan. A stop was made at Winder, Georgia, however,
and a bottle of spirits was obtained. Frank, a temperate man
who rarely drank, is said to have taken a deep drink and then
fallen asleep with his head on the shoulder of one of his
executioners.

Another story has it that Frank asked the mobsmen if he
might write a farewell note to his wife. Permission was
granted on condition that he tell "only the truth." He
wrote a note in which he said he was innocent of Mary
Phagan's murder and that he had never been unfaithful to
his wife.

The ringleader of the mob is supposed to have read the
note and then torn it to pieces because, as he put it, Frank
had told "a God-damned lie."

Now, forty years since the Frank lynching, it is not un-
usual for citizens to become embroiled in bitter arguments
as to his guilt or innocence. There are still living many who
were close to the principals in the case who have convic-
tions not dimmed by the passing years.

Did Leo M. Frank kill Mary Phagan?

No one knows. No one ever knew except Leo Frank un-
less Jim Conley's story was true. One man believed he
didn't with such courageous devotion to duty that he de-
stroyed a brilliant political career.

Did Jim Conley kill Mary Phagan?

There are many who believe he did but there is no proof.

Only one man came out of the Frank case in better shape
than he went in. That was Hugh M. Dorsey, the Solicitor
General, who prosecuted Frank. As a reward for his brilliant

72 PEACHTBEE PABADE

work in representing the state so ably he was subsequently
elected Governor of Georgia.

Several years after the Frank lynching occurred Mrs.
John M. Slaton was shopping in one of Atlanta's leading
department stores. On completing her purchase, Mrs. Slaton
gave her name and address to the saleslady so that proper
entry might be made in her account.

After writing the name and address the saleslady turned
to Mrs. Slaton and said:

"I think we should know each other. My name is Mrs.
Leo M. Frank."

"The Voice of the South"

LATE IN 1921 OR EARLY IN 1922, A TALL, BLOND YOUNG MAN
from Cedartown, Georgia, made a call on Major John S.
Cohen. His name was Walter Tison and he had been a ship's
wireless operator. He had heard something called "radio
broadcasting" and thought that possibly The Journal would
like to have a transmitting station of its own as a promo-
tional instrument for good will.

He explained to Major Cohen that it was possible to send
the human voice or music hundreds of miles through the
air without wires for the edification and/or enjoyment of
those listening. Mr. Tison, be it known, was not solely in-
terested in The Journal installing a broadcasting station
purely as a scientific adjunct to the papers public-relations
program he wanted a job.

73

74 PEACHTREE PARADE

After controlling his surprise at the amazing story Mr.
Tison had told him about the miracle of sound transmission,
Major Cohen sent the young man to John Paschall to get
the latter's reaction. Mr. Paschall listened to Mr. Tison's
story and then informed his chief that if what the young
man said was true he thought The Journal should take
the plunge.

Thus it was that The Atlanta Journal became interested
in establishing a radio broadcasting station, and on March
15, 1922, the first radio station in the South and the second
newspaper-owned one in the United States took to the air.

But there had been a spirited battle between The Journal
and The Atlanta Constitution for the distinction of being
"first." The folks across the railroad tracks (at that time)
also had heard about radio and were preparing to install
a transmitter. The race almost ended in a photo finish with
WSB coming in about twenty-four hours before WGM
( The Constitutions station. )

The manner in which The Journal won the contest was
rather cute. The transmitter The Journal had ordered a
monster of one hundred watts' powerwas delayed in tran-
sit, and other plans had to be made. There was an enthusi-
astic radio amateur in Rome, Georgia, named Gordon Heidt.
He had a hundred-watt transmitter for his personal use,
and it was by borrowing it that The Journal came in under
the wire after bringing Mr. Heidt's equipment to Atlanta
by fast truck.

WSB was installed on the fifth floor of the old Journal
building at No. 7 Forsyth Street and thafs how radio came
to Dixie. George Her, formerly of the engineering staff of the
Georgia Power Company, took over as chief engineer, and
his assistant was the young man who started the whole
thing Walter Tison. It may be interpolated here that after
remaining with WSB for several years Mr. Tison went to

"THE VOICE OF THE SOUTH" 75

Clearwater, Florida, where he installed his own broadcasting
station and became, as the saying goes, rich.

With a brand-new radio station on its hands the question
naturally arose among The Journal brass: Who's going to run
it? They did considerable casting about and came up with
Ralph Smith, an able member of the news staff who, betimes,
was the paper's Washington correspondent. Mr. Smith, not
particularly impressed with the possible future of radio or
the nature of his new assignment, went about his task with
commendable zeal but no particular flair. After all, he was
a political writer and not a radio announcer.

And then it was that the finger of destiny pointed at
Lambdin Kay, to become known in subsequent years as
the man who invented radio broadcasting. He had been
on The Journal staff for several years doing rewrites and
special assignments and, more latterly, had been editor of
the Tri- Weekly edition.

At one time Mr. Kay had edited a small trade magazine
aimed at the motion-picture industry called Right of the
Reel. He also had dabbled briefly in motion-picture exhibi-
tion, being for a time owner and operator of the West End
Theater.

He was a person of vigor and imagination for whom the
new gadget called "radio" held a compelling fascination.

To demonstrate Mr. Kay's powers of imagination and im-
provisation it may be noted here that as quarterback of a
University of Georgia freshman football team he thought up
a play on the spur of the moment that accomplished its
immediate purpose, although it was not used frequently
thereafter.

His team was stalled near the goal line and all efforts
to penetrate the defense of the opposition had failed. On
fourth down, and likely the last chance, Mr. Kay went into
the huddle with this plan: the center would pass the ball

76 PEACHTREE PABADE

to him, he would clasp it firmly to his bosom, two back-
field comrades would grasp him by a foot and an arm each,
and toss him over the goal line.

Because of the small stature of Quarterback Kay this
maneuver was not too difficult to execute, and victory was
snatched from the jaws of defeat, as the sports writers are
wont to say. Furthermore, it is likely the only case on record
where a quarterback was forward-passed for a touchdown.

Taking over as manager, program director, chief an-
nouncer, radio editor, and anything else that came along,
Lambdin Kay proceeded to put WSB on the map. He created
the WSB Radiowls composed of avid listeners who remained
up 'way past their bedtime to listen to the shenanigans from
Atlanta. He issued thousands of Radiowls membership cards
personally signed by him, and to this day there are many
who still carry them in their wallets.

Mr. Kay beat the bushes for talent and anybody who
could sing, whistle, recite, play any kind of instrument, or
merely breathe heavily was pushed in front of the WSB
microphone. In a short time almost everybody in Atlanta
who could ride, walk, or crawl to WSB had participated in
a program and thus became a booster.

None of the talent and the word is used in its loosest
possible connotation was paid for services rendered, but
that made no difference. They trouped to WSB to perform,
and Aunt Minnie stayed home to listen. It was all very
informal and friendly and, for an additional wonder, people
listened.

In the beginning, of course, it was necessary to interest
people in owning radio receivers to make broadcasting worth
while. After all, a radio program that isn't heard isn't worth
broadcasting. So, a young man named Harry Daugherty was
engaged to prowl the town with a sound truck and shout up
crowds to gather around and hear radio. He haunted the

"THE VOICE OF THE SOUTH" 77

public parks, busy street intersections, or any place where
a few could be gathered in the name of radio.

Mr. Daugherty did a fine job and, in time, with the as-
sistance of classes conducted by The Journal in the building
of primitive receiving sets, WSB had more listeners than
you could shake a microphone at. Mr. Daugherty did right
well by himself, too. For many years he was chief engineer of
WSB and WSB-TV and is currently manager of facilities and
buildings.

The competition between WSB and WGM was keen for a
while. Such talent as was available was in fierce demand,
and it was here that Mr. Kay issued a chilling ukase: Any
person who took part in a WGM broadcast was barred
forever from appearing in front of a WSB mike for free, of
course. Pretty highhanded stuff, you may say, but it worked.
In time WSB dominated the local audience and The Consti-
tution gave its radio station to Georgia Tech. It is now
called WGST.

There shall be no attempt here to trace the play-by-play
growth of WSB, but it may be interesting to note a few
incidents along the way. In time, of course, WSB went to
50,000 watts (as powerful as you can get in this country)
and also branched out into television. Since 1940 WSB
(and later WSB-TV) has been magnificently operated by
Leonard Reinsch, John Outler, Mark Bartlett, Frank Gaither,
Elmo Ellis, et al.

But if a man is going to reminisce he should reminisce,
shouldn't he?

In the early days of WSB there was an hour set apart in
the evenings when the public was invited to visit the sta-
tion and listen to radio picked up on a "powerful" receiving
set operated by Mr. Her.

Inasmuch as there were only a few broadcasting stations

78 PEACHTKEE PARADE

in the United States at the time the most frequent things
heard by the eager radio fans were squeals and whistles of
nerve-shattering quality called "static/* After a few minutes
of this caterwauling Mr. Her would take the headphones
from his ears, look solemnly at such listeners as were present,
and in a most confidential manner explain, "You are now
hearing a ship on the ocean." It wasn't long before he was
known to the gang around WSB as "Ship on the Ocean"
Her.

Mr. Kay, with a free rein to run WSB pretty much as he
pleased, gave his flair for showmanship full speed ahead.
He assumed the sobriquet of "The Little Colonel," after
the hero of The Birth of a Nation., and contrived a singsong
signature for the station that was as distinctive as the call
letters, WSB. There are likely many who are reading these
lines who remember that carnival-barker manner in which
he intoned "Double-yuh Ess Bee The Voice of the South-
Radiophone Broadcasting Station of The Atlant-tuh Jour-
neU, Atlan-tuh, Jaw-juh."

It became something of a fad for radio announcers of that
day to take on colorful nomenclature. There was "The Hired
Hand" in Fort Worth; "The Solemn Old Judge" in Memphis;
"The Merry Old Chief" in Kansas City; and so on. But "The
Little Colonel of WSB" yielded to none in popularity or rich-
ness of personality.

Among other things Mr. Kay was the first guest announcer
in the history of radio. He was whisked away to New York
to announce a program presented by the John Wanamaker
store. The star attraction of the show was the Paul White-
man Orchestra, unless it was the Little Colonel who won
that spot for himself.

One of his outstanding innovations was the use of chimes

"THE VOICE OF THE SOUTH" 79

playing the first three notes of "Over There" to identify WSB.
This notion was considered so good by the National Broad-
casting Company that it subsequently adopted a similar de-
vice for identifying its network.

The Little Colonel also was the first to adopt a slogan
for his station, "The Voice of the South." Nowadays almost
every radio station is "The Voice of Somethmg-or-other."
and even Miss Dorothy Kilgallen calls her newspaper col-
umn "The Voice of Broadway/ 7

Although the call letters of The Journals station, WSB,
have no meaning, Mr. Kay imparted meaning to them,
having them represent the initial letters of the invitation,
"Welcome South, Brother."

The Little Colonel was the first to give a spot broadcast
of a news event. I believe they call them "remotes" today.
It wasn't so remote at the time, however.

A large clothing store a couple of blocks away from the
WSB studios caught fire one night, and Mr. Kay, armed
with his trusty microphone, stood in a window and gave
a blow-by-blow account of the struggle the firemen were
having with the conflagration. His description was graphic
and vivid so much so that it was picked up by listeners in
many parts of the country, including several newspapers,
and given wide circulation.

This was dandy, of course, except that the Associated
Press got hopping mad because The Journal was an AP
paper, and the wire service claimed it had first call on
any news acquired by its client.

If there is a monument to Lambdin Kay, however, it is
"The Unorganized Cheerful Givers," which he conceived
early in the thirties.

At the time the Community Chest was in bad favor with

80 PEACHTKEE PARADE

the Atlanta public because it was believed reasonably or
not, I cannot saythat too much money was being spent on
overhead and organization and not enough was being given
to charity.

It was in this atmosphere that Mr. Kay hit on the notion
of having a free-for-all radio program marked by absolute in-
formality during which the public would be invited to con-
tribute to the Christmas cheer of those who would other-
wise be cheerless with the assurance that one hundred cents
of every dollar would be devoted to the purpose for which
it was given.

The UCG, as it came to be called, went on the air a couple
of weeks before Christmas each year, and people called in
person or by telephone to make their contributions, usually
attaching a condition that they would give the money if
Mr. Kay and his principal accomplice, a guy named Rogers,
would do such and such.

As a result Mr. Kay and I sang songs, told jokes, named
babies, dogs, cats, birds, or what-have-you, and in one way
or another were instrumental in raising thousands of dollars
during the decade in which the UCG was an integral part
of Atlanta's Yuletide heartthrob.

One evening during the frenetic fever of a UCG broadcast
a note was handed to Mr. Kay announcing that friends of
Louis Bach, the owner of a small chain of motion-picture
theaters in Atlanta, were contributing a hundred dollars
in his memory. Mr. Bach, it seems, had died a few days
previously.

It so happened that Mr. Kay had known Mr. Bach quite
well and glancing at the note he came to the hasty con-
clusion that this was a personal contribution from the mo-
tion-picture exhibitor himself. (In mitigation it must be
explained that Mr. Kay had been so busy with UCG affairs

"THE VOICE OF THE SOUTH" 81

that he had not had time to read the papers and was not
aware of Mr. Bach's passing.)

"Well, well, well/' Mr. Kay chortled as he made the an-
nouncement. "Here's a hundred dollars from good old Louis
Bach. I can just see that little fat rascal right now sitting
by the fire smoking a big cigar. Thanks, Louis!"

Not having been quite as busy with UCG affairs as Mr.
Kay, I knew of the demise of Mr. Bach but was powerless to
stop Mr. Kay in his acknowledgment of the donation. You
can well imagine how thunderstruck I was, and when we
got a breather, I imparted the sad tidings to my colleague.
He was, of course, regretful, but he waited until the follow-
ing night to pay a gentle tribute to the departed film exhibi-
tor and thank his friends for having honored his memory in
such an appropriate way. Mr. Kay had finesse.

In the midst of one UCG campaign Mr. Kay called a con-
ference with me to discuss the frequent use of our names
on the air during the programs.

"It seems to me/' he said, "that listeners get awfully tired
of hearing the names Rogers and Kay. In the future let's
shorten the thing by merely using the first letters of our
surnames. Ill call you Mr. R. and you call me Mr. K/' It
took me some little time to explain to him that when you
shorten a name like "Kay" by merely using the first letter
you haven't actually shortened it very much.

There is no way of estimating how much good resulted
from the annual sessions of the Unorganized Cheerful
Givers, but it goes without saying that it was one of the
finest adventures in human relations ever promulgated by
a radio station. And to Lambdin Kay goes full credit for
scoring a bull's eye.

Mr. Kay was not, however, always sweetness and light.
There was a more rugged side to him. In fact, he had a

82 PEACHTKEE PABADE

rather low boiling point and on occasion emphasized his
feelings with his fists. There was the time he came to blows
with a Journal printer . . . another time it was an army offi-
cer . , . and the fisticuffs I recall most vividly had to do with
a gentleman who came to the radio station one night heavily
in his cups but fiercely eager to sing a little tenor over
the air.

Unmindful that Mr. Kay and the terribly tight tenor were
engaged in a heated argument just outside the studio door, I
was blithely strumming my guitar and lifting my voice in
what I hoped might pass for song before the mike.

As I projected such charm as I could muster and such
talent as I possessed, the door to Mr. Kay's office flew open,
and I saw him and the tenor flailing away at each other.
Before 1 had time to note in which direction the tide of
battle was flowing, the door slammed shut, and there I was
strumming and singing away on the horns of a dilemma, not
knowing whether to abandon my art and rush to the aid of
my colleague or to finish the number.

Having seen Mr. Kay in action previously, however, I de-
cided the show must go on because I had sublime confidence
in the Little Colonel's ability to take care of himself. Before
I finished, however, the door opened and shut several times,
and the final tableau revealed Mr. Kay sitting astride his
supine antagonist with all the available tenor singing
knocked out of him for that night

Prior to his association with WSB Mr. Kay suffered se-
vere embarrassment at the hands of one Kid Domb, a semi-
pro prize fighter who doubled as a newsie on Peachtree.

Mr. Kay, having gained considerable renown as an alley
fighter, had a hankering to test his skills in the squared circle
tinder professional conditions. Thus he let it be known to the
matchmaker at the Municipal Auditorium, where the fights

"THE VOICE OF THE SOUTH" 83

were held, that he would be willing to participate in a bout
with a suitable opponent.

Secretly, Mr. Kay had a notion he could whip anybody of
comparable weight in the world, and he also had in mind an
article for The JournaTs Sunday magazine to be entitled,
"How It Feels to Win a Prize Fight/"

In due time Mr. Kay was notified that Kid Domb, a fair
preliminary boy, had agreed to a match with him. The date
was set, and Mr. Kay went into training. As one of his
trainers I would like to confess at this late date that our train-
ing methods were unorthodox and perhaps not calculated to
get the best performance out of our boy. Late hours and
anything that would pour were the principal training items.

For a moment, though, we thought we really had some-
thing. An itinerant pug told Mr. Kay he knew a secret punch
that would chill the best of them and that if he were allowed
to sit at our training table for a few rounds he would be
happy to share it.

As this paralyzing blow was described by its supposed cre-
ator there was nothing to it other than to straighten the hit-
ting arm to full length suddenly and forcefully just at the
moment the opponent came within exact range. He in-
structed Mr. Kay to stand exactly at arm's length from the
wall and execute the maneuver to determine what would
happen. The results were startling. As our fighte/s arm came
abruptly to its full length and the fist thudded against the
wall there was a sharp smack and Mr. Kay leaped back,
fearing for a time that he had broken a bone.

Then, noting that he had dislodged a small piece of plaster
from the wall Mr. Kay declared the "Shock Punch/' as it
was called, was terrific and shook hands warmly with his
teacher.

In the fight with Kid Domb, however, Killer Kay, as we

84 PEACHTREE PABADE

had nicknamed him, didn't have a chance to use his "Shock
Punch" or much of anything else. While Mr. Kay was pre-
occupied with the formality of shaking hands in the center
of the ring, his opponent gave him a frightful smash on the
nose that not only left him standing there practically help-
less but, as he reported later, completely blotted from his
memory all recollection of the remainder of the bout a
merciful thing if there ever was one.

At the end of the first round the Killer crept back to his
corner and, although he was far from what might be re-
motely considered good condition, stubbornly refused to
concede the fight. It was obvious that he didn't know what
he was doing, or he never would have responded to the bell
for Round No. 2.

It was while awaiting the bell for Round No. 3 that Mr.
Kay's handlers earnestly besought him to give up the whole
thing, but he called attention to the fact that Kid Domb must
not be in such good shape either because he was completely
covered with blood.

"That's what weVe been trying to tell you/* one of the
handlers explained. "It's your blood!"

At this point, against the wishes of the game little guy
who had been more interested in shaking hands than in hit-
ting the first blow, the towel was thrown in and the con-
test ended.

It may be appended here as a footnote that The Journal's
Sunday magazine never published a story entitled, "How
It Feels to Win a Prize Fight," by Lambdin Kay.

After WSB changed hands in 1939 Mr. Kay stuck around
for about a year and then retired from radio and never once
looked back. He left the game to which he had contributed
so much to enter less spectacular fields of endeavor. But the
personality and achievements of the Little Colonel can

"THE VOICE OF THE SOUTH" 85

never be erased from the memories of those who knew him
in those days when he was inventing radio broadcasting and
riding the kilocycles hell for leather.

When they write the history of American radio and hand
out the credit to those who blazed the pioneer trail in this
country, "The Little Colonel of WSB" must in all conscience
be given an impressive share. He and others like him made
sense out of chaos and delivered to the American people the
greatest show they ever enjoyedthat is, until television
came along.

Mr. Otis Skinner, the great dramatic actor, came to At-
lanta early in the life of WSB to appear at the Atlanta
Theater in Blood and Sand, one of his greatest stage tri-
umphs. Naturally, the enterprising WSB operatives were
eager to have him make an appearance before their micro-
phone.

The great artist was approached.

"Certainly not," he said in response to the invitation. "If
people want to see and hear Otis Skinner let them come to
the theater and leave a token of appreciation at the box
office."

His answer, however, was not taken as final. Further
arguments were used, one being that if people heard him
on radio but couldn't see his magnificent presence they would
come in droves to the theater to view him. This, or some
other persuasion, changed his mind, and after much reluc-
tance and grumbling he consented.

At the appointed hour he appeared at WSB to give a dra-
matic reading and there was much bowing and scraping.
Mr. Skinner, despite all this deference, remained a little
difficult but he had pledged his word, so ...

Proper, although fulsome announcement was made of the

86 PEACHTREE PABADE

impending treat, and Mr, Skinner stepped forth. Unfor-
tunately for all concerned it was at this very moment that
the temperamental transmitter decided to call it a day, and
Mr. Skinner was left alone with himself, a dead mike, and a
small group of onlookers.

No one had the heart to tell Mr. Skinner that no one had
heard his magnificent reading save the few within earshot,
and he took many bows for having done an exceptionally
fine broadcast. To his dying day Otis Skinner never knew
his first radio appearance was made before a moribund
microphone and that The Journal contributed mercifully to
the deception. The following day's paper carried a graceful
acknowledgment of Mr. Skinner's fine contribution to the
progress of radio broadcasting.

Credit if such it may be called goes to WSB for having
introduced hillbilly music to radio, or vice versa. It arrived
in the person of FiddBn' John Carson, an itinerant musician
who enjoyed a reputation of sorts in the back country.

Mr. Carson, a personable man of somewhat unstable
habits, charmed listeners of the early twenties with such
folk classics as "Little Old Log Cabin in the Lane/' "Billy
in the Low Ground," and "Give the Fiddler a Dram."

Reference to a libation for the violinist calls to mind an oc-
casion when Mr. Carson first made a remark that has been
widely quoted. He was behind the scenes at WSB that
is to say, in the Gents' Room when a person or persons un-
known produced a flagon of corn squeezings and invited all
and sundry to partake.

Mr. Carson, a man not particularly noted for abstemious
habits, was armed with a water glass when the host ap-
proached him and began to pour.

"Say when, John," the impromptu bartender advised.

"THE VOICE OF THE SOUTH" 87

Mr. Carson remained mum as the pourer continued to
pour.

"Say when, John," he urged again.

Mr. Carson noted with satisfaction that the glass was
rapidly being filled before making reply. He did, however,
finally comply with the urging of his host.

"I reckon you can tell when hit's a-runnin' over, cain't
you?" he asked blandly.

Fiddlin* John's work over WSB attracted national atten-
tion, and he was called to New York to make a series of
phonograph records for one of the leading recording com-
panies, which subsequently enjoyed a wide sale. But he
wanted no part of the Big Town.

"I wuz thar a whole week," Fiddlin* John told friends on
his return, "and didn't see a danged soul I knowed."

In his latter years Fiddlin* John joined the entourage of
the Talmadges Gene and Herman and his fiddling and
singing added the corn pone flavor to many a political rally
up and down and across Georgia.

It was not unusual in radio's younger days for the engi-
neers to double as announcers. Thus it was while doing
double duty one afternoon that Harry Daugherty, of pre-
vious reference, caught a hot flash off the AP wire that former
President Woodrow Wilson had died. Now, Mr. Daugherty
was essentially an engineer, but he was enough of a news-
man to know that something had to be done but quickly.

So, seizing the flash in his hand, Mr. Daugherty rushed
to the nearest live mike and was startled to hear himself say:

"Ladies and gentlemen! It gives me great pleasure to an-
nounce the death of Woodrow Wilson."

It was this selfsame Mr. Daugherty who passed through a
WSB studio one day as the sound-effects people were trying
to capture the sound of water being poured from a pitcher

88 PEACHTREE PARADE

into a glass. They were rolling buckshot down a tin incline,
shaking coarse sand in a heavy paper sack, and otherwise
making quite a production of it.

Mr. Daugherty watched for a few minutes and disappeared

only to return shortly holding a pitcher filled with water in
one hand and an empty glass in the other.

"Just a minute, fellows/' he said as he interrupted the
sound-effects experts. "I think I've got it."

Whereupon, with calmness and deliberation he took his
stance in front of the microphone and slowly poured the
water from the pitcher into the glass.

He had it.

The most baffling sound-effects direction ever contained
in a WSB script is credited to Miss Edna Lee, the celebrated
novelist, who was at the time writing a series of continuities
about Southern heroism during the Civil War.

At a spot where the Confederate hero is approaching the
Yankee nerve center in a most stealthy manner the sound
direction read:

"EFFECT: Sound of man swimming silently under water."

Rudolph Valentino, the idolized Sheik of the silent movies,
stood before a WSB mike one evening to pay his unkindest
regards to Paramount Pictures, his home studio, with which
he was feuding and which took a strenuous lambasting from
their star in every appearance he made during a transcon-
tinental tour with his wife and dancing partner, Natacha
Rambova (nee Winifred Hudnut).

The evening of Mr. Valentino's appearance at WSB the
reception hall was jam-packed with women eager for a
glimpse of their idol.

There is only one note of significance I would like to

"THE VOICE OF THE SOUTH" 89

make in this connection. I saw at least half a dozen women
faint dead away after reaching out and touching the sleeve
of his jacket.
Shades of Gable, Peck, Power, and Liberace?

Miss Rosa Ponselle, the Radiant Rosa of the Metropolitan,
made a guest appearance on WSB (for free, of course) dur-
ing one of the Met's annual spring visits to Atlanta.

She had accepted the invitation eagerly and with great
vigor with such vigor, as a matter of fact, that the first time
she took off on a high note the transmitter went to pieces
and didn't recover until long after the radiant one had de-
parted the studio.

To Roy McMillan, of the WSB staff, goes the palm for hav-
ing been involved in the most uproarious blooper in the
history of Southern or any other kind of broadcasting.

Mr. McMillan, a ready man with an ad lib, was doing
informative remotes from various parts of Atlanta in a series
called "Know Your Atlanta Better," or something, and on a
sizzling July afternoon found himself, microphone in hand,
interviewing Matt Leonard, keeper of the Grant Park zoo.

As Mr. McMillan and Mr. Leonard chatted away, the
former noted that from time to time a Bengal tiger in a near-
by cage kept walking over to a basin of water and sitting in
it. To Mr. McMillan, and rightly so, this seemed an odd thing
for a Bengal tiger to be doing so he tossed an information-
provoking question at the veteran zoo keeper.

"By the way, Matt," Mr. McMillan asked, "why does that
tiger keep going over to that basin of water and sitting in
it?"

Mr. Leonard took a glance at the tiger cage to get the full
significance of the radio man's query and answered:

90 PEACHTREE PABADE

"He's trying to cool off his backsides." *

"What did you say, Matt?" Mr, McMillan asked, being
loath to believe his ears.

"I said he's trying to cool off his backsides," Mr. Leonard
repeated with such clarity that none could misunderstand.

So far as I know that concluded the "Know Your Atlanta
Better" series.

* This is not an exact quote but should give a general idea.

Defying the Demon

(THE INCIDENTS RELATED IN THIS CHAPTER ABE TRUE; ONI*Y THE

names have been changed to protect the guilty. )

Any story of Peachtree and its tributaries must, of neces-
sity, record some of the doings of our more high-spirited
citizens when under the spell of the Demon. It also must not
overlook some of the people who supplied them with the
spirits that made them so high.

For example, there was Clarence Collins, the Society Boot-
legger. He flourished during what was laughingly called
Prohibition. The reason Clarence was called the Society
Bootlegger by those who staggered up and down Peachtree
was because he came from a fine old Atlanta family and had
a rather aristocratic bearing when dealing one off the hip.

91

92 PEACHTBEE PARADE

Inasmuch as the courts in Atlanta were exceedingly stern
with those who violated the Prohibition laws from the retail
end, Clarence, more so than most, was extremely nervous
when loadedthat is, when he was carrying contraband on
his person. As a matter of fact, if I chanced to meet Clarence
on the street I could tell at a glance whether he was "hold-
ing" or not. Under such circumstances he always wore beads
of perspiration on his upper lip, and regardless of how cold
it might be, there was moisture on his brow.

His extreme nervousness under pressure is as good a
reason as any for feeling a great sympathy for what hap-
pened to him one Christmas Eve. Business was brisk, it
being the holiday season, and Clarence barged out of his
apartment with a full cargo that is, he had bottles in all of
his overcoat pockets, his coat pockets, his pants pockets, and
the auxiliary pockets he had built on the inside of his
trousers just south of the belt line. Had Clarence been struck
by an automobile while so laden, he would have been cut
into little bitty pieces.

But avarice had overcome cowardice, and Clarence
stepped onto Luckie Street with a fair degree of confidence.
This didn't last long, however, because as he crossed Spring
Street on his way to Peachtree a harness bull fell in step only
a short distance behind him.

Such an occurrence would have caused any dealer in
illegal merchandise at least a few qualms of uneasiness, but
in Clarence it set up a reaction more closely akin to panic
than anything else that can be thought of offhand. Gone
were his dreams of quick profits. Instead, there loomed the
mental image of a courtroom with him as the accused be-
fore the bar hearing Judge John D. Humphries, or some
other equally dedicated jurist, intoning the dreaded sen-
tence: a $1,000 fine, twelve months on the chain gang, and
six months in the county jail.

DEFYING THE DEMON 93

It didn't take Clarence long to make up his mind. At the
first doorway he reached he left a bottle, and at the next
convenient doorway he left another, and so on until by the
time he reached Peachtree he was clean. Apparently the
policeman had been unaware that Clarence was dropping
cargo along the way because when he overtook the trembling
bootlegger near the Peachtree side of the Piedmont Hotel he
merely wished him a Merry Christmas and turned south on
Broad Street.

After wishing the cop "a Merry Christmas to you, too, 3 *
Clarence mopped his moist brow and heaved a sigh of relief
that some say could be heard all the way to the police station.
Then it was that thoughts of gain overcame his fears, so he
retraced his steps, reloaded himself, and fulfilled the com-
missions that had been entrusted to his care under the
general heading of Yuletide cheer.

Somehow or other I always like a Christmas story with a
happy ending.

Bill Adams was a druggist from a thriving community near
Atlanta who had come to town for the Metropolitan Opera
doings.

He was no great lover of opera, mind you, but he enjoyed
the incidental social activities pertaining thereto, particu-
larly the drinking. In his behalf it must be reported that he
could stand up under as heavy a load of firewater as anyone
else of his size, weight, and particular shade of blue eyes
from Rabun Gap to Tybee Light, as the politicians say.

There was, however, one opera singer who had captured
his fancy. She was the Radiant Rosa Ponselle, at that time
queen of the dramatic sopranos. Bill made the remark on
more than one occasion that he would gladly forfeit what
chance he might have for an eternity in paradise for just a few
moments alone with Rosa.

94 PEACHTREE PABADE

Well-meaning friends who knew of Bill's consuming
admiration for the colorful singer came to the conclusion
that something should be done about it. So, late one evening
during the opera season the telephone in Bill's hotel room
tinkled. Wonder of wonders! It was Rosa Ponselle on the
line wanting to know if the small-town druggist could favor
her with some of his precious time in her suite at the Bilt-
more for a midnight snack.

It just so happened that several of Biffs most enthusiastic
cronies were in his room at the time, and they were greatly
impressed by the manner in which he received the invitation.
They later agreed that he could have been no more overjoyed
had he been handed a key to the hoard at Fort Knox with an
invitation to help himself.

"There is just one catch/* Bill told his friends as he returned
to their presence and poured himself another snort by way
of celebrating the great thing that had happened to him.
"She says there will be a few other people there for a while,
and inasmuch as they have just come from the opera I must
wear full dress so as not to appear out of line."

Well, that was a fine how-dee-do. Here Bill Adams had a
chance to meet Rosa Ponselle but might have to forfeit the
privilege because he didn't have the proper garments. But
Bill's well-meaning friends had his best interests at heart.

"The thing for you to do," they told him, "is to borrow a
full-dress outfit and go right ahead."

TBut who can I borrow a full-dress suit from at this time of
night?" Bill wanted to know.

"Oh, just anybody who has a spare full-dress suit/' they
told him.

By this time Bill had laid on a few more coatings of the
old paint remover and had come to the conclusion that if
anything was to come of this project it was up to him to do

DEFYING THE DEMON 95

it for himself. He quickly took a canvass of those present
Did anyone have a full-dress suit that wasn't working?

It just so happened that one fellow had a white vest, an-
other had a dress shirt, still another had a claw-hammer coat,
another had a dress tie, but no one had a pair of dress
trousers. It was maddening. Here he was ready for the
greatest night of his life a date with Rosa Ponselle but it
was all going by the board because he didn't have a pair of
pants dress pants, that is.

Appealing to his comrades for advice he heard suggestions
for wearing everything "dress" except the trousers. It so
happened that he had a pair of yellow skcks in his luggage.
This was emphatically voted down by his board of advisers,
who made the point that he would lose face with Rosa by
showing up for a date with the prima donna of the Met
wearing yellow skcks with full-dress accouterments.

To alleviate his despair, Mr. Adams had resorted more and
more frequently to the refreshment stand, and it wasn't long
before his dreams of the Radiant Rosa were, as Mr, Ernest
Dowson so aptly put it, "gone with the wind.**

I have it on good authority that Mr. Adams awoke the
following morning in the depths of despair. Aside from cer-
tain gnawing pains in the region of the abdomen and a
general deterioration of the nervous system he was over-
whelmed with remorse for having missed the greatest oppor-
tunity of his life. Some say he muttered of suicide, but this
was never verified.

But it is true that he returned to his drug business in the
small town whence he came, nursing the conviction that if
he had only been properly garmented he could have spent
an exciting evening with the greatest diva of her day.

And he hasn't known until this day unless he reads these
lines and recognizes himself as the victim of an impractical
joke that what he assumed to be the voice of Rosa Ponselle

96 PEACHTREE PARADE

inviting Him to her suite at the midnight hour was only the
cooing of a hotel switchboard operator who took a short cut
to earning a five-dollar honorarium,

Mr. David Dawson was the City Hall reporter for one of
Atlanta's three daily newspapers that once flourished simul-
taneously and at the same time before mergers, consolida-
tions, and the like made them one. He was a large and impres-
sive-looking man who was not above resorting to ardent
spirits in the evenings if there was a proper occasion or if
there wasn't, for that matter.

On the morning in question he reported for work consider-
ably the worse for wear. He had been making wassail at
some function or other and overindulgence had been the
watchword. Thus it was that when he reported for duty
the following morning he was more dead than alive. His
nerves were jumping outside of his skin and tying knots in
themselves. His stomach felt as if a family of bats had moved
in and were teaching their young to fly. His mouth tasted,
according to his own diagnosis, as if he had swallowed a
hen backward. In short, Mr. Dawson had a hang-over.

Now, in such emergencies, the husky City Hall reporter
knew that a few strands of the hair of the dog that had bit
him were more to be desired than rubies and pearls. He
knew from experience that a few nips, expertly applied,
would restore him to something that by a wild stretch of
the imagination might be called normal.

But Mr. Dawson was up against one of the stern realities
of life. He had no potion with which to administer the needed
first aid. A canvass of his journalistic colleagues revealed
that they also were without. For a time it appeared that our
distressed friend would just have to tough it out or chew on
his own fat, as the saying goes.

Newspapermen, however, particularly those who are sue-

DEFYING THE DEMON 97

cessf ul in covering political activity, are not without resource-
fulness. Mr. Dawson knew that the head of a large public-
utility organization was fearful of certain legislation that
was being fomented by city council He also knew that Mr.
Big Shot always kept a supply of snake-bite remedy in the
lower left-hand drawer of his desk. He also knew that if he
made a request for an audience with Mr. Big Shot he would
not be denied.

So, with trembling hands, Mr. Dawson dialed the proper
number and in short order had Mr. Big Shot on the line.

"This is Dave Dawson/' he told Mr. B.S. "There is some-
thing going on in City Hall that I think you should know
about. If you say so, I'll come right over/'

In due time Mr. Dawson appeared in Mr. Big Shot's office
and the latter, being something of a man of the world him-
self, realized that his visitor needed the wherewithal to keep
from falling apart.

"Before we get down to business, Dave," the public-
utilities tycoon inquired, "how would you like a little drink?"

It was with something of an effort that our man controlled
his eagerness, but in what might pass for a casual voice he
replied, "I don't care if I do."

Whereupon Mr. Big Shot produced a bottle from the left-
hand bottom drawer of his desk and poured the quivering
City Hall reporter a nice, fat slug. This was promptly
downed, and then another and Glory be!yet another.

By this time Mr. Dawson was not feeling as much pain as
formerly. The magic juice had lured his nerves back under
his skin; the family of bats had moved out of his stomach
peremptorily; and he had returned to a reasonable sense of
well-being.

"Now, Dave/' said Mr. Big Shot as he realized his visitor
had regained control of himself to a point where he could
maintain a conversation without ripping apart at the seams,

98 PEACHTBEE PARADE

"just what was that City Hall matter you wished to discuss
with me?**

Mr. Dawson, as previously reported, was a tall and rather
imposing-looking man. At the question from Mr. Big Shot he
arose to his full height and with a silly leer flitting across his
face, replied: "That City Hall matter? Oh, that! Ha-ha-ha-ha-
ha-ha-ha. . . ."

And he was still ha-ha-ing as he walked out of earshot.

"Well, 111 be damned," growled Mr. Big Shot. "That big
phony has suckered me again/*

Mr. Harllee Branch, Sr., previously mentioned in these
reminiscences as a city editor of great force and resourceful-
ness, forswore the flowing bowl some years before I attached
myself to the city staff of The Journal. As a matter of fact,
by the time I came to know him he was a teetotaler of the
deepest dye. Not only that, he was consumed with zeal to
see to it that others also eschewed the cup that queers.

Hence, he did much, I am quite sure, to curtail the tippling
of many Peachtree citizens for at least one Christmas season
by causing to be printed on the front page of The Journal a
story designed to slow down even the most foolhardy.

The story was simply this: It had come to the attention
of the authorities that certain unprincipled persons, appar-
ently interested in the manufacture of potables, had siphoned
out the alcohol in which the stiffs at the Emory University
Medical School were being preserved and were converting
it through some mysterious alchemy into drinkables for the
Yule season.

'That ought to hold 'em," Mr. Branch said to me shortly
before Christmas when I was called on to write the cadaver-
juice story.

"Shall I check with someone to be sure the facts are cor-
rect?** I asked my city editor.

DEFYING THE DEMON 99

"That won't be necessary," he replied. "The facts are
correct. Don't mention any names. Just credit the informa-
tion to 'the authorities.' "

During the intervening years I have often wondered if
anyone actually drew off the preserving fluid from the Emory
cadavers as a base for illegal juices or whether Mr. Branch
manufactured the story in the interest of greater sobriety
along Peachtree at that season of the year when overindulg-
ence was the rule rather than the exception.

Regardless of whether the facts were authentic I do know
this: hardened drinkers told me that the stuff just didn't
taste right after they read that story. It might have been
true.

Sam Towers was a practitioner of the bootlegging art who
operated from headquarters on Carnegie Way to serve the
needs of the parched throats of Peachtree. The reason he is
included in these memoirs is because of two things: (1) the
manner in which he kept his store of contraband; (2) the
manner in which he died.

Mr. Towers, operating during the era of so-called Prohibi-
tion, was extremely careful lest the police surprise him at his
labors in, as the boys of those days called it, his "stash."
Hence, the front and only door to his apartment was re-
enforced by heavy steel bars. The door could be forced only
after the expenditure of considerable energy and time. The
whilom bootlegger was not so much concerned with the
energy, but the time was important and for a very good
reason.

Mr. Towers, be it known, kept his supply of unbottled
juices in his bathtub for strategic reasons. For example, if
the police came hammering on his door he could rush
speedily to his bathroom, pull the plug, and before the con-
stabulary could gain access to his depository, allow the illicit

100 PEACHTKEE PARADE

liquids to gurgle down the drain, leaving in their wake no
evidence that might later confront their owner in court.

I once asked Mr. Towers if the fact that his bathtub
was filled with juices that would dissolve the hide of a
rhinoceros didn't interfere with his bathing.

"Who bathes?'" inquired the honest booze merchant in a
tone of voice that made me sorry for having asked.

The untimely demise of Mr. Towers did not come in a
blaze of gunfire as might have been surmised from the
perilous manner in which he earned his livelihood. It came,
as a matter of fact, while he was enjoying a well-earned vaca-
tion at one of Georgia's fancier coastal resorts.

Mr. Towers, who should have known better, plied himself
too enthusiastically with some of his own liquid merchandise
he had taken along, and was drowned in water that was said,
by persons who came upon his lifeless body on the beach,
to have been only six inches deep. He had fallen in the prone
position and was unable to overcome the inertia engendered
by the potent spirits of the sort with which he had been wont
to sprinkle the Peachtree Parade for many years.

Mr. Ignatz Watson graced the Peachtree scene for only a
short time, but although his season was brief, he made a last-
ing impression. He toiled daytimes in the sports department
of The Journal, but the evenings were his own and he made
the most of them.

Although Mr. Watson's weekly wage was what at best
might have been called modest, he resided at the Georgian
Terrace, one of Atlanta's better hotels, and although it may
have occurred to some to question him about how he paid
his rent, no one did. There was some whispering about a
wealthy family back in Washington, D.C., but no one ever
knew for sure.

Mr. Watson first gained more than passing attention when

DEFYING THE DEMON 101

he crashed a party at the Capital City Club, and after par-
taking liberally of such invigorating waters as had been pro-
vided for the invited guests, commandeered an elevator and
rode rapturously up and down for the better part of an hour,
much to the distress of the club's management.

When asked why he had been guilty of such mischievous
conduct, he gave a reply that, even in the cold light of
sobriety, makes sense.

"I've always wanted to run an elevator," he said simply
and, be it to his credit, without shame.

On yet another occasion Mr. Watson was overcome with
a yearning to swim in the Piedmont Park pool although the
month was January and the hour was 8.30 A.M. He was at a
party when the craving hit him. All arguments that his
eagerness for aquatics was foolhardy fell on deaf ears. The
fact that the temperature was hovering in the mid-twenties
also failed to dampen his enthusiasm. He wanted to swim
S-W-I-M!

Since he could not be dissuaded, a few comrades joined
him in the taxicab which he summoned to take him to Pied-
mont Park to slake his thirst for swimming if you don't mind
a mangled metaphor.

Arriving at the pool site Mr. Watson gave a sharp yip of
glee and raced at full throttle along the diving board. By
the time he had reached its end he had achieved a fair speed
and after a couple of nice bounces executed a graceful arc in
the air and landed in the pool with a thud. It seems that no
one, including Mr. Watson, had checked to determine
whether there was any water in the pool. There wasn't.

Physicians at the hospital to which the doughty sports
writer was taken expressed the view that it was only the
extremely relaxed condition of their patient that allowed him
to escape fatal injuries from landing on the concrete bottom

102 PEACHTREE PARADE

of the empty pool It was their expressed opinion that he had
passed out in mid-air.

On yet another occasion Mr. Watson escaped what could
easily have been lethal injuries, on account, no doubt, of the
fact that he was also relaxed at the time. He was a passenger
in the rear seat of an automobile that was hurrying north on
Peachtree, As the machine neared the intersection of Peach-
tree and Ponce de Leon, the driver asked Mr. Watson where
he lived.

"Right here/' the passenger replied and without more ado
opened the door of the machine and stepped out onto the
street, although it was conservatively estimated that the
vehicle was doing at least fifty miles an hour at the time.

He was right about one thing, though the Georgian
Terrace is located at Peachtree and Ponce de Leon.

George Trent, a reporter new to the courthouse run, made
a connection that for a time looked as if it might result
disastrously. A deputy sheriff, as a gesture of good will and
perhaps with an eye to currying favor with the press, pre-
sented him with a quart of com liquor one morning shortly
after he had arrived to discharge his journalistic duties. The
bottle was carefully wrapped in a newspaper. I must explain
at this point that there is nothing that looks more like a quart
of whisky wrapped in a newspaper than a quart of whisky
wrapped in a newspaper.

Not knowing what else to do with his prize the young
reporter started on his rounds of the building, visiting first
one office or courtroom and then another. Because of his
newness on the beat he knew of no safe place to cache his
bundle, so he lugged it around. Several courthouse hangers-
on gave the package a more than cursory glance but did not
pursue the investigation further.

About 11:00 A.M. our reporter dropped into the courtroom

DEFYING THE DEMON 103

presided over by the scourge of the Prohibition law violators
Judge John D. Humphries, mentioned elsewhere in these
recollections as a jurist who enjoyed nothing more than
throwing the book at any person showing the least disrespect
for the late Andrew Volstead, author of the law outlawing
strong waters.

As our young reporter glanced about the courtroom, his
eyes met those of the dedicated jurist There were mutual
smiles of recognition, and the man on the bench invited the
gentleman of the press to join him. One does not, of course,
decline such an invitation; so our jumpy journalist took his
seat beside the judge, being careful to place his package
with extreme caution on the bench.

After a few minutes of one-sided conversation our scribe
wasn't saying anything Judge Humphries asked out of a
clear blue sky:

"By the way, George, what do you have in that bundle?"

Almost unnerved by the query but still clinging to a rem-
nant of his senses, the young reporter blurted:

"Er, Judge, it's just a dirty shirt I'm taking to the laundry.''

At this almost unbelievable intelligence Judge Humphries,
with what appeared to be a look of amused understanding in
his eyes, said:

'Well, in that case you'd better grab it quick. It's about to
roll off the bench."

Which, among other things, demonstrates that even
strait-laced judges sometimes have their moments of human
understanding.

Two film salesmen well known to Peachtree made a visit
on business to a thriving south Georgia town during the days
of the dry depression. Entertainment was at a premium, and
for lack of something better to do they made contact with a
local bootician who supplied them with a gallon jug filled

104 PEACHTBEE PARADE

with what was guaranteed to be a product as pure as a baby's
tears and as powerful as the kick of an enraged mule.

The Messrs. Doolittle and Dooless (to coin a couple of
names) invited a local exhibitor to visit them in their hotel
room to partake of their hospitality and discuss matters per-
tinent to the motion-picture industry.

During the course of the evening they bit large chunks out
of the gallon and were in a very gay mood, indeed, when the
time came to part. The local man, however, was still in pos-
session of his senses and issued a word of caution to the
convivial visitors.

"Before you retire for the evening/ 7 he counseled, "be sure
to hide this jug. Our chief of police is rabid on the whisky
subject, and if he should be called to your room for any
reason and found this stuff here, he would give you a large
dose of what-for."

The visitors thanked their guest for his concern and assured
him they would follow his advice to the letter. And they did.

The next morning the local exhibitor was horrified to
observe the manner in which they had done it. Before going
to bed they had obtained a length of heavy twine with which
they had suspended the incriminating gallon jug outside
their window, which, by an odd chance, fronted on the town
square.

If it has appeared that these incidents of reference tend to
glorify insobriety or overindulgence, let me hasten to assure
you, kind reader, that such has in no wise been my intention.
It just so happens that some of the Peachtree personalities I
have known provided brief interludes from the tedium of
workaday routine by the things they did and said when,
shall we say, not exactly themselves.

It is odd but true that happenings that are in themselves
more or less serious at the time tend to assume an aura of

DEFYING THE DEMON 105

comedy when viewed in retrospect. It is in this spirit that
these recollections have been revived.

It might not be amiss, however, to include here some
words (three to be exact) of wisdom spoken not long ago
by Mr. Ralph McGill, the erudite and understanding editor
and front-page columnist of The Atlanta Constitution.

An important newspaper publisher was complaining to
Ralph that newspapers these days don't seem to pack the
punch in their news stories that they once did and that city
rooms no longer produce the talented characters of yore.

"What's wrong, Ralph?" the publisher asked. "Why don't
the people in our city rooms catch fire with enthusiasm for
the newspaper business as they did in the not so long ago."

"They're too sober," Mr. McGill replied with what might
have been detected as a note of nostalgia in his voice.

A Friend of the Emperor

THEY CALLED HIM THE BOSWELL OF BOBBY JONES. FOR MORE
than two decades lie toiled in the shadow of the most magnifi-
cent golfer in the history of the Ancient and Honorable Game
the man they called the Emperor of Golf.

He was O. B. Keeler, who, in his way, was as much a cham-
pion as the star in whose reflected light he shone. He was
infinitely more than a sports writer recording the accomplish-
ments of the greatest master of the most difficult sport of all.
He was friend, confidant, counselor all in one. He idolized
Bobby Jones as a competitive athlete. He worshiped him as
a man.

For as long as Bobby Jones trod the golf courses of the
world as the matchless stylist and unequaled competitor, O.

106

A FBIEND OF THE EMPEROR 107

B. Keeler was at his side. He also was there during "the seven
lean years" from 1916 to 1923 when the Boy Wonder of golf-
dom, admittedly possessing the greatest talents of any prac-
titioner of the game, couldn't put his shots together with
sufficient consistency to win a major tournament.

It was O. B. Keeler who suffered in the press tent as calous
writersnotably Westbrook Pegler wrote their conclusion
that Bobby had everything but "what it took" to be a cham-
pion.

It was O. B. Keeler who strengthened the morale of the
frustrated boy who couldn't understand himself and, most of
all, why he couldn't win the big ones. O. B. constantly
assured Bob that someday there would be a turning in the
long, long lane of defeat and that victory, when it came,
would be all the sweeter for having been tested in the searing
flames of disappointment.

It is unlikely that in the history of American sport there
has ever been such a combination of performer and reporter
as was exemplified by Bobby Jones and O. B. Keeler. O. B.
reported every major tournament, and many minor ones,
in which Bob participated both in this country and abroad.
They traveled more than 120,000 miles together from one
tournament to another. In all, O. B. covered twenty-seven
tournaments of national or international importance in which
Bob participated.

It was in the early 1920's, when Bob had about reached
the end of the seven years of famine that O. B. invited me
to share an apartment with him on North Jackson Street, the
name subsequently being changed to Parkway Drive. Dur-
ing long evenings together he would tell me of Bobby's
problems and his greatness.

"He has only one thing to learn,'* he would say, "to make
him the greatest golfer tie game has ever known. He must
learn to disregard his opponents entirely and fight it out with

108 PEACHTREE PARADE

Old Man Par the guy who never one-putts a green and
never takes more than two. I keep telling him this over and
over again, and someday he will realize it is the truth. And
when he doeslook out!"

O. B/s invitation to share the apartment with him was
characteristic.

"I need somebody to help me pay the rent at 310 North
Jackson Street," he said one day. "Would you be interested?"

I was, and thus began a friendship that continued until his
death in the autumn of 1950.

He was one of the most scrupulously honest men I have
ever known. In him there was no sham or pretense. It cannot
be said of him as it is sometimes said of others (without an
iota of truth, to be sure) that he never spoke ill of anyone.
He spoke ill of plenty of people because he was a man of
positive likes and dislikes. For example, he never forgave
Westbrook Pegler for the things he wrote about Bobby Jones,
and it is said that on occasion in the press tent after the boy
from Atlanta had won an important tournament O. B. would
stand before the typewriter of the venomous Peg and shout,
"Yanh! Yanh! Yanh!" after the manner of a small boy ridicul-
ing a bully who had been discomfited. His dislike for any-
thing Rooseveltian was colossal, and he didn't mind saying
so.

He was an indefatigable worker. Aside from his duties as
golf expert for The Atlanta Journal and a feature writer who
was called on to cover anything from grand opera to wres-
tling matches, he wrote steadily for the national magazines
specializing in golf. Many a night I went to sleep with the
clickety-clack of O. B/s typewriter singing in my ears. He
was nationally known as an authority on all matters pertain-
ing to golf, and Grantland Rice once said of him, "He is the
finest analyst of golfing style now writing in America."

As a practicing newspaperman he was a superb artist. His

A FRIEND OF THE EMPEROR 109

vocabulary was apparently limitless, and his feel for drama
in the news, whether it was a golf match or a moonshiners'
feud in the mountains, was unerring.

He was a meticulous craftsman, and to this day veteran
compositors in The Journal's composing room agree that his
copy was the cleanest (that is, freest of typing errors) they
ever handled.

Like all great reporters his enthusiasm was boundless.
After Bobby Jones retired from competitive golf and O. B.'s
sun was setting, he would tackle the most insignificant of
tournaments as if they were to settle the championship of the
universe. To him the story he was working on at the moment
was the greatest of his career.

He was generous in his attention to the younger men on
the staff. He was always available w r hen sought for advice or
counsel about the myriad ramifications of newspaper writing.
Once, when I was a cub reporter, he gave me a complete
course in journalism, and it took less than a minute.

"When you sit down to write a newspaper story," he said,
"just imagine you are writing to a friend about something
interesting that has happened. You may start your story
T)ear Bill/ then tell him the story and sign your name at the
bottom. Then erase the 'Dear Bill' and your name and you've

, ., y

got it.

On another occasion he advised me to sign my name to
everything I wrote.

"It doesn't matter whether it's a one-paragrapher or ten
pages,' 7 he said. "Put your by-line on It. The desk men will
knock your name off many times, but they'll also leave it on
frequently. Remember, in this business all you've got to sell
is your name. Give it a chance."

O. B/s distinctions were many. As a result of the exclusive
interview he wrote for the Associated Press about Bobby in
1926, the AP made him an honorary member of its organiza-

110 PEACHTREE PARADE

tion and presented him with a watch as further recognition.
He was the first to broadcast the results of a golf tournament
from Great Britain to the United States by radio. He was the
first newspaperman to have an interview with the Ddke of
Windsor (then the Prince of Wales) on the subject of golf.
He was among the first (if not the first) members of the
Hearst organization to receive a by-line over an INS dispatch.
It resulted from his story of being entrusted with the wedding
ring of Leo Frank, after he had been lynched near Marietta,
and directed to give it to the bereft widow.

("They had to give me a by-line on it/* O. B. once told me.
"How else could you handle a story that began, 1 slept last
night with Leo M. Frank's wedding ring under my pillow'?")

O. B. had the most remarkable memory of anyone I have
ever known. He could, with complete accuracy, recount the
scores of every golf tournament in which Bobby Jones par-
ticipated with a stroke-by-stroke description of every match.
He could recite page after page of prose from the works of
the elder Dumas, Sir Walter Scott, and other writers whose
work he devoured, and his store of poetry, both sacred and
profane, was limitless.

Around the country-club houses and hotels in the evenings
after play in the golf tournaments was over for the day, O. B.
would entertain for hour on hour with such classics as Don
Marquis's "Ode to Spring," Newman Levy's "Thais," and that
immortal but highly immoral ballad attributed to the gentle
Eugene Field, "Socratic Love."

He knew the lyrics of hundreds of almost-forgotten songs,
and in a voice that was slightly off key he enjoyed nothing
better than to sing them solo or in groups at top lung. I recall
one Sunday afternoon in his home on Distillery Hill when he
organized a quartet composed of Beniamino Gigli, the lead-
ing tenor of the Metropolitan Opera Company; Billy Guard,
press representative extraordinary of the same high-toned

A FRIEND OF THE EMPEROR 111

musical organization; himself; and mefor purposes of giving
a treatment to "Sweet Ad-o-llne."

Although in later life his dress conformed to that of the
average man on the street, he for many years affected a cos-
tume that was, to say the least, individual. It consisted of
golf knickers, a Norfolk jacket, white shirt with detachable
stiff collar, a conventional felt hat with a gay feather in the
band, full-length ribbed wool stockings, and golf shoes from
which the spikes, or cleats, had been removed.

The coming of the dial telephone robbed him of one of his
most consuming diversions: arguing with telephone opera-
tors. Once the denizens of The Journals city room were con-
vulsed to hear him inquire of a telephone operator in most
acidulous tones, "Well, will you kindly tell me what wrong
number I must call in order to get Main 1234."

In him there was a delicate sense of prankery. It was
demonstrated on one occasion with Harry Wilensky, a highly
temperamental reporter then on the news staff of The Journal
but now laboring in the journalistic vineyard of Mr. Pulitzer
in St. Louis, as tie victim.

Among other phobias Mr. Wilensky could not tolerate the
presence of paper scraps on the floor around his desk. So
deep was his feeling in this regard that he once engaged in
fisticuffs with Ed Miles, of the sports staff, because the latter
persisted in tossing paper wads under his chair.

Mr, Keeler had noticed this by-play with ill-concealed
interest, so early one morning, before Mr. Wilensky had
arrived to perform his high-strung chores, he glued a sheet
of copy paper to the floor near the reporter's desk and was in
high glee as the beset scribe almost went out of his mind
trying to scrape it up.

On another morning Mr. Keeler was eating breakfast in
Mr. Boone Crawford's small cafe on the ground floor of the
old Journal building when he noticed a new weighing and

112 PEACHTREE PARADE

fortune-telling machine had been installed. He was on the
point of testing its powers when the ice man arrived to make
a delivery.

"Just a moment, friend/' Mr. Keeler said to the ice man. "I
would like to borrow your block of ice for a scientific experi-
ment."

The ice merchant was slightly bewildered by the request
but relinquished his burden with the admonition, "Be careful
with that ice, chum. It weighs a hunnert pounds."

"You have absolutely nothing to worry about," Mr. Keeler
replied as he took the tongs from the dubious ice man and
placed the cake of ice on the weighing machine. In less than
a second the machine disgorged a small piece of cardboard
that carried printed on its surface these astounding facts:
"You weigh 92 pounds. You have a warm and loving dis-
position and like to sing and dance."

Mr. Keeler, with a glitter of confirmation in his eyes, re-
turned the block of ice to its custodian.

"Just as I thought," he muttered cryptically as he went
back to his breakfast.

Among other things Mr. Keeler was a collector of firearms
with particular emphasis on handguns. Hence, it is no won-
der that he was beside himself with enthusiasm one morning
when he received in the mail from a friend a flare pistol such
as those used to send up signals from ships at sea. It was a
most formidable-looking weapon with a barrel that must
have been almost an inch in diameter.

For the better part of an hour Mr. Keeler amused himself
by tapping reporters on the shoulder and then, when they
looked up, aiming the pistol directly at their heads to the
accompaniment of a sharp clicking noise he contrived
through some gymnastics with tongue and lips. The effect
was startling, and not a few of the reporters, particularly
those who had not slept well the night before, were so un-

A FRIEND OF THE EMPEROR 113

nerved that they took refuge in the men's room in the hope
of finding a stimulant of some kind tucked away in a corner.

Mr. Keeler was still in high glee with his flare pistol and
clicking noise and was pointing the weapon at an old hatrack
that stood almost in the center of the city room when a
colored Western Union messenger came bouncing in to
deliver a telegram to the sports department. As he rounded
the hatrack he came face to face with Mr. Keeler and his
murderous-looking weapon and, needless to add, passed out
cold.

On another occasion, as recounted in The Old Hokum
Bucket, O. B. hit on the notion that inasmuch as one's food
is assembled inside the stomach after eating it might as well
be mixed before eating and thus resulted the great experi-
ment.

"As you know," Mr. Keeler explained, "all the food you eat
at one sitting gets together in your stomach so that the
gastric juices may work their magic on it.

"But why wait until the food reaches your stomach before
allowing the various components of a meal to come to-
gether? Wouldn't the stomach be saved considerable exer-
tion if all the elements of a lunch or dinner were mixed
thoroughly before being swallowed?"

There was a nodding of heads in deference to Mr. Keeler's
overwhelming logic.

"Feeling as strongly as I do on this subject," he continued,
"I am willing to be the guinea pig. I will eat a premked
lunch to demonstrate the practical aspects of my theory."

Whereupon, Mr. Keeler led the way to a nearby bistro and
called upon the counterman to furnish him with the largest
bowl in the house.

"I want to mix me up a little lunch/' he explained.

A large bowl was produced and set before the confident

114 PEACHTREE PARADE

theorist at his table, and such hangers-on as were present
crowded around to watch.

First, Mr. Keeler ordered a serving of chili con carne and
dumped it into his bowl. Then he crumbled a handful of soda
crackers on his chili. A cup of vegetable soup was next added
to the mixture and this was followed by a glass of buttermilk.
For extra body, a few potato chips went in.

As each ingredient was added, Mr. Keeler would stir the
entire mass with a large spoon.

"I am very fond of raw oysters, and fortunately they are
now in season/ 7 he commented as he stirred and forthwith
unloaded a half-dozen Chesapeakes into the bowl.

"And to top off a lunch of this sort," Mr. Keeler declaimed
expansively, "I know of nothing more invigorating or more
conducive to complete digestion than a schooner of draft
beer."

He thereupon anointed the entire concoction with a beaker
of the foaming brew.

As Mr. Keeler gleefully assembled his lunch in the bowl,
certain spectators of limited fortitude began turning a light
green and quietly groping their way toward the fresh air.

"As stated in my original thesis," Mr. Keeler declared, "the
food eventually assembles in your stomach, so why not get
the jump on it and assemble it in advance?'*

As he finished this statement O. B. ladled up a spoonful of
the monstrous mixture and touched it to his lips. There was
an immediate sputtering such as might accompany the blow-
out of an automobile tire on a summer afternoon.

"There is also a chance/' Mr. Keeler remarked as he wiped
his lips with a paper napkin and pushed the bowl aside, "that
I could be wrong about this whole thing."

And fixing his eyes on the mixture of chili, vegetable soup,
raw oysters, beer, etc., he said sadly but decisively, "Boys,
this lousy stuff is not fit to eat."

A FRIEND OF THE EMPEROR 115

Mr. Keeler, perhaps because he had survived several severe
illnesses over the years and had experienced not a few close
brushes with the Grim Reaper, was something of a hypo-
chondriac. Frequently, and particularly in the mornings, he
could be heard moaning, "I just can't make it. I give up.
There are people sleeping peacefully in the West View ceme-
tery who died feeling much better than I do"

If anyone in his presence found it necessary to take medi-
cine, O. B. would request that he be given a dose, too. "It is
obvious," he would explain with apparent earnestness, "if
it is good for you it is good for me/* So far as I know he never
suffered any ill effects from his flair for mooching medicine.

He was, I believe, the fastest eater of record. The speed
with which he ate was not noticeable and never attracted
attention. But one moment he would be facing a full plate
of food, and in apparently the twinkling of an eye the plate
would be empty. He just inhaled it.

"Food," he would explain, "is an impatient thing. Why
make it wait?"

O. B. had three mottos that he enunciated frequently and
which I think he believed profoundly. They were:

1) If at first you don't succeed give up!

2) Always vote no and bet that they don't.

3) Any story that's fit to tell isn't fit to listen to.

In the course of covering football games O. B. hit upon
a device for separating in his notes the play of the rival
teams. It was simplicity itself, but no one had hit on it be-
fore. To the uninitiated, it may be explained that in review-
ing the play of a football game the reporter is plagued with
the problem of determiriing swiftly and accurately what
each team did with the ball when it was in its possession.
This is particularly important when the game is over and
the story must be written in a hurry.

The Keeler Method, however, solved this problem in a

116 PEACHTREE PARADE

flash. O. B. got a two-way ribbon (red and black) for his
portable typewriter on which he wrote his notes during
the game and when one team had the ball he would write
the account in black and then, when the other team had pos-
session, he would switch to the red.

O. B. began his newspaper career with the old Atlanta
Georgian, a Hearst paper that was published in Atlanta for
many years. He was working in an insurance office when he
and his boss came into violent disagreement about the great-
ness of the Chicago Cubs during the heyday of Three-
Fingered-Brown, and Tinker to Evers to Chance. This and
other disagreements caused Mr. Keeler to seek other pas-
tures for his talents. Furthermore, he had little stomach for
bookkeeping.

Being a devout sports fan he began writing little squibs
of verse and prose to Percy Whiting, at that time sports
editor of The Georgian. In time O. B. screwed up his nerve
sufficiently to brace Mr. Whiting for a job. The latter, im-
pressed by the things Mr. Keeler had written, was willing to
engage him but had already exhausted his budget.

"In that case," O. B. responded, "I'll be happy to work
for nothing until there is an opening. Furthermore, 111
furnish my own typewriter/*

And that is how O. B. Keeler began his newspaper career.

It might be explained here that this arrangement lasted
only a couple of weeks until Mr. Whiting could convince
his managing editor that he had a genius on his hands who
should be put on the payroll immediately.

It must be admitted in the interest of truth that Mr.
Keeler sometimes tested the patience of his colleagues
through the indulgence of certain whims. There was the
time he went about The Journal building shouting "PIP-
grass!" because the surname of the New York Yankee pitcher
somehow titillated his inner ear.

A FRIEND OF THE EMPEROR 117

There was another occasion when George Moody, for
many years The Journal's courthouse reporter, furnished Mr.
Keeler with a dosage of private elixir that, as the golf expert
avowed, snatched him from death's door. Mr. Moody, not
wishing to be known to his employers as one who harbored
exhilarating juices in his office desk, had sworn his friend
to secrecy before giving the treatment.

After assuring Mr. Moody that he had nothing to fear,
O. B. spent an entire morning riding up and down in the
elevator declaiming to one and all:

"Drink Old Doctor Moody^s Sovereign Specific it will
cure what ails you!"

Late one summer after several experiences with his star
golf writer that might have been considered "trying," John
Paschall, then managing editor, was heard to say at low
breath: "There'll never be another one like O. B." And then
he added, with warmth, "Thank God!' 7

And there never was another one like O. B., eitherbut
thank God for him. He was the most amazing character I
have ever knownand during thirty-five years of newspaper-
ing I have known some characters.

Gifted with magnificent writing skills, he had the magic
touch that is possessed by only a few who follow the craft
of words. Full of friendliness, he made friends lasting ones
by the score. Loyal to persons and ideals to which he swore
allegiance, he was the essence of loyalty. Uninhibited to
the point where his true personality shone through, he was
unique among men. Because he loved others he was deeply
loved by many men and women in varied strata of society.
The facets of his nature were many, and each presented an
attractiveness that was irresistible. There was in him much
of the child that never grew up.

Even when the Black Knight came for him that evening

118 PEACHTREE PABADE

of October 15, 1950, in the Emory University Hospital, he
remained in character. A nurse entered the room of the
dying man to take a blood specimen for laboratory examina-
tion. Seeing the nurse and being cognizant of her mission,
the brilliant chronicler of gallant men and their deeds
aroused long enough from the long sleep he was entering
to say, "You cant fool me. I know who you are. You're
Dracula!"

Those were his last words.

Atlanta has been the home town of a fabulous array of
champions, the greatest of whom was Robert Tyre Jones,
Jr. Beginning as a puny kid of five who toddled around the
East Lake golf course more for his health than anything
else, he developed into the champion of champions, as far
as golf is concerned.

At the time of his retirement from competition in 1930
after scoring the Grand Slam (U.S. Amateur and Open,
British Amateur and Open in the same year), he had won the
U.S. Amateur five times; the U.S. Open four times; the
British Amateur once; the British Open three times; and
other sectional and regional tournaments too numerous to
mention.

Never has a city given a more enthusiastic or spontaneous
welcome to a returning citizen than Atlanta did when Bob
returned from the U.S. Amateur in 1930 after nailing down
the fourth side of what some inspired sports writer called
"the impregnable quadrilateral of golf " Peachtree rang with
cheers as thousands upon thousands of Atlantians paid trib-
ute to the modest, unassuming young man who had been
chivalrous in victory and gallant in defeat.

The morning of the Grand Slam parade I was assigned
to get an interview with Bob at his home, then located on
Northside Drive. He had been spirited into town to avoid

A FRIEND OF THE EMPEROR 119

a possible riot of enthusiasm at the railway terminal As
I walked from my taxicab to the Jones front door, I was
stopped in my tracks by childish voices audible through a
second-story window. They were saying over and over again,
"Daddy, we're so glad you're back home."

Then It struck me that this was no superman they were
talking to, no juggernaut of the links who was being wel-
comed, no mechanical man of golf to whom affectionate
greeting was being given. No. This was just a devoted father
home from a trip holding reunion with his young.

Bob and I had a little talk after I entered the house, but
I had got my story while walking up the driveway to his
door.

The subsequent parade, incidentally, caused the largest
turnout along Peachtree in the history of Atlanta, with the
possible exception of the Gone with the Wind demonstration
and the recent National Junior Chamber of Commerce stam-
pede. In these three instances as many people were on the
streets as It was possible to accommodate, so the logical con-
clusion Is that It is a three-way tie,

In my view there is much more to being a champion than
in merely defeating all others with whom you compete.
There is, if you please, the manner in which the winner lives
with victory. In this regard Bobby Jones has been faultless.
During the years when he was on top of the golfing world
he never once, by word or action, gave the impression pub-
licly or privately that he considered himself as anyone
special. His modesty is traditional, and his tact has been
exemplary.

Although millions of words have been written about his
accomplishments, he continues to be shy about publicity.
He has always been courteous toward the gentlemen of the
press, but as far as I know, has never curried their favor.

I have been seeing Bob along Peachtree for a good many

120 PEACHTREE PARADE

years, and the association has been pleasant although we
have never been more than cordial acquaintances. But he
has long held my abiding respect for the manner in which he
has conducted himself at all times, and the words of good
report about him from those who have known him far more
intimately than I have been unfailingly complimentary.

In recent years Bob has been bedeviled by illness that
has impaired his powers of locomotion. But whether carrying
a golf club or a walking stick he is still the Champion and the
most gracious one that any sport has ever produced.

Peachtree's first champion of whom I have any recollec-
tion was Bobby Walthour, who flourished soon after the
turn of the century and hung up many world's bicycle-riding
records with his churning legs as he propelled himself
through space at incredible speeds under his own power.

There was also Alexa Sterling, the great woman golf
champion, who played out of Atlanta and won the U.S.
Women's championship three times between 1916 and 1920.
And Charlie Yates, the tousle-headed golfer who electrified
the golfing world by annexing the British Amateur in 1938.

It is not unusual almost any day to encounter on Peach-
tree a small, nonathletic-appearing man of less than medium
height with a weather-beaten face and a slight stoop to
his shoulders. He is Bryan M. Grant, Jr., known to the ten-
nis world as "Bitsy" and in whose honor Atlanta's municipal
tennis center is named. It was on these courts that the Na-
tional Clay Court Championships were played last summer.

He is the greatest tennis player Atlanta ever produced. He
is one of the greatest players America ever produced. And
inch for inch and pound for pound he is one of the greatest
tennis players who ever lived.

Any encyclopedia of sports will tell you how many cham-
pionships he won and when, but principally he was known

A FEIEND OF THE EMPEROR 121

as "The Giant Killer" because the top boys were his par-
ticular meat. On clay he was almost Invincible and gave
such stars as Don Budge, Ellsworth Vines, Fred Perry, and
Frankie Parker some of the worst drubbings of their careers.

There are those who hold to the view that if Bitsv had
been a few inches taller he would have been greater than
Tilden. But as it is, he's great enough. One frustrated player
was talking to me about Bitsy's game founded primarily on
a stonewall defenseand said in lackluster tones, "Playing
Bitsy Grant is like batting a tennis ball against a brick wall
It always comes back."

Bitsy Grant has been a bright jewel in the diadem of
Atlanta champions.

Although not properly belonging to the famous street,
Peachtree also claims Louise Suggs, from nearby Lithia
Springs, America's leading money winner among the women
professional golfers. They call her "Little Toughle" because
she as at her best when the going Is toughest.

So it is that the Peachtree Parade is sprinkled with those
who have competed in many sports all over the world and
have returned home time and again to accept the accolade
from the home folks as "the best."

Bobby, Alexa, Charlie, Bitsy, Louise and the rest were
O. B/s "chillun." He was always there to cheer them on
and tell the world of their flaming deeds. He was the re-
porter who told others of their greatness. He celebrated
with them in victory and wept with them in defeat. And
when his old typewriter was stilled forever that October
night in 1950 the sports world lost one of its greatest chron-
iclers and many competitors lost one of their dearest friends.

About a year after O. B. Keeler died I attended a luncheon
in the Capital City Club and chanced to be seated next to
Bobby Jones.

122 PEACHTREE PARADE

"It's a funny thing about O. B," he said. "As you know,
after 1930 we were not together as much as we had been
during the years when I was actively playing golf. We
remained close friends, of course, but I was busy with my
law practice, and his assignments took him elsewhere.

"But since his death there hasn't been a day that I haven't
thought of him. Maybe I will be shaving and think of some-
thing funny he did or said. Or at some other odd moment I
will be reminded of him. He was the kind of man you don't
forget."

"He was the kind of man you don't forget."

Not a bad epitaph.

No Business like Show Business

BRANCHING OFF FROM PEACHTREE ARE LUCKDB AM> WALTON
Streets. Major and minor film distributors house their dis-
trict and branch offices on these two avenues that are re-
ferred to jointly as Film Row. Millions of dollars are poured
into the distributors 7 coffers annually by Southern exhibitors
for the privilege of displaying their product.

As in other businesses, there is constant warfare between
the buyer and the seller, but I believe William K. Jenlcins,
head of a large chain of theaters in Georgia, gave voice to
the most succinct analysis of the film business I have ever
heard. At the time of making this utterance he had in mind
the fact that the distributors constantly strive to obtain the
highest possible revenue for their product and the exhibi-

123

124 PEACHTREE PARADE

tors struggle with equal fervor to pay as little as they can. It
was after observing this spirited tug of war for many years
that Mr. Jenkins said:

"The motion-picture business is the only business I know
of in which all parties at interest are eternally trying to run
each other out of business.' 7

Be that as it may, both distributors and exhibitors of mo-
tion pictures in Atlanta live exceedingly well. As one film
man expresses it:

"The only difference between an exhibitor and a distribu-
tor is that, once in a while, the exhibitor has to wash his own
Cadillac"

The Variety Club atop the Atlantan Hotel is the social
center of show- business in Atlanta. It is here that the Film
Row battles are forgotten, and gentlemen who only a short
time previously may have been sinking stilettos in one an-
other's backs while making a motion-picture deal join in
friendly fashion to play a congenial game of gin rummy or
hearts and forget the rigors of business lifeeven film busi-
ness.

There is no doubt whatsoever that the Variety Club, draw-
ing the show-business people together in a common effort for
charity, has performed a miracle in human relations and re-
moved the rancor from a business that at times could get
extremely hot. As it is, however, members of the Variety
Club join hands in such humanitarian projects as the At-
lanta Cerebral Palsy School, the Bankhead Avenue Youth
Project, and the Mountain View Camp for Girls.

Just last spring, during a one-day campaign throughout
downtown and residential Atlanta, the Variety Clubbers
raised some $75,000 for the Atlanta Cerebral Palsy School
through the annual Old Newsboys' Day solicitation. To this
end leaders in all phases of Atlanta business and social life

NO BUSINESS LIKE SHOW BUSINESS 125

joined with the showmen to hawk a special edition of The
Atlanta Journal and Constitution donated by Atlanta News-
papers, Inc., on all principal downtown intersections during
the day and the residential districts at night.

Much of my newspaper life has been spent among the
showmen of Peachtree. As amusement editor of The Journal
and latterly as a columnist, I have learned to know and
love the people of show business and have found them to
be the most generous group with which I have ever been
thrown in contact. Although they sometimes act and talk
toughjust like newspaper people they wear their hearts
on their sleeves, and no genuine appeal for help is ever al-
lowed to go unheeded.

Last Christmas, when it was learned that a popular film
salesman was in financial straits because severe illness had
knocked him down, the boys passed the hat and gave their
friend $2,500 in cash as a Yuletide remembrance. There are
many private beneficiaries of Variety Club assistance who
are never known to the public because, although the show-
men constantly ballyhoo their wares as a matter of business,
they want no hippodroming when their charitable impulses
are stirred.

Several years ago a woman came to me in great distress
because her husband had fallen victim to the drug habit.
He had been a successful businessman until overtaken by
the vicious practice. The distraught wife had heard of a
sanitarium in New York State that had compiled a remark-
able record of success in curing narcotic addicts. She felt
that if her husband could receive the benefits of this in-
stitution he might be cured. But the treatment cost $2,000,
and she had no money.

"So/' she said to me, "I am at my row's end. My husband
has taken 'the cure' at several institutions, but they have not
been successful They don't keep him long enough or give

126 PEACHTKEE PARADE

him the proper treatment to make it permanent. I believe
the New York institution could really do him some good. At
least, it's a last chance. Can you put me in touch with anyone
who might be willing to help? 7 *

This was a large order. I knew plenty of people who
would be eager to help but were without funds with which
to motivate their humanitarian impulses. I knew it would
be fruitless to send her to anyone except a person of sufficient
means to spare the needed $2,000 if so inclined.

After casting about for a time, I gave her the name of a
man on Film Row who had a reputation for being something
of a "tough cookie/' I had no idea whether he would be
interested in donating a large sum of money to a total
stranger on the off chance that he might be cured of the
dope habit.

"I don't think you will have any difficulty getting to see
this man," I told the wife, "and I'm sure he will listen to your
story. I also don't know whether he will be inclined to help.
There is only one thing in your favorif he wants to stake
your husband to a cure, he can afford it."

Before the woman left I issued a word of caution.

"Under no circumstances," I urged her, "tell him who sent
you. If he does anything for your husband I want him to do
it because he wants to and not on my account."

The hopeful wife went straightway to the office of the
Film Row figure, where she easily gained admittance. He
listened patiently to her story and seemed interested.

"There is just one thing," he said after hearing the heart-
breaking narrative. "I never saw you before in my life. I
have no way of knowing whether your story is true, although
I assume it is. I am inclined to give you the assistance you
need, but I must know more about the case. Frankly, I can
proceed no further until I know who sent you to me."

NO BUSINESS LIKE SHOW BUSINESS 127

In a later discussion with the wife she asked me, **What
would you have done under the circumstances?"

"Exactly what you did," I replied. "I would have told him
who sent me. After all, no great harm has been done."

The upshot of the interview was that the showman de-
cided to invest $2,000 in the rehabilitation of a total stranger
but did it in a sensible manner. He placed the money in the
Heart Fund of the Variety Club with instructions as to the
manner in which it was to be spent. He had it explained
to the beneficiary of his generosity that the money was a
loan and not a gift so as to protect his self-respect. He
further directed that the money be repaid to the Variety
Club's Heart Fund and not to him personally.

Well, things sometimes work out all right. The husband
went to the sanitarium in question, took the cure, and has
been returned to society as a useful citizen. His business
is doing well again. Not long ago he was elected an official
of one of Atlanta's leading churches.

Only recently I tried to discuss the matter with my "tough
cookie** friend.

"Why don't you try minding your own business?" he
growled, but with a kindly growl.

The first show-business personality I ever interviewed for
The Journal was Miss Viola Dana, a star of silent pictures
with the biggest and most beautiful blue eyes I ever saw.
She was in residence at the Ansley Hotel (now Dinkier
Plaza) when I called to ply her with questions. At her door
I bumped into Lamar Trotti, representing The Atlanta
Georgian, who was later to go to Hollywood himself and
win great distinction as a writer, director, and producer of
motion pictures for Twentieth Century-Fox.

When I confessed to Lamar that this was my first inter-
view, he made a similar admission.

128 PEACHTREE PARADE

"In that case/' I said, "let's give her the works/' It was
agreed.

Having had no previous experience as an interviewer I
had brought along a sheaf of note paper that would have
choked an elephant. Air. Trotti was similarly equipped. For
the better part of two hours we plied her with questions
about everything under the sun, betimes taking notes furi-

ouslv.

We inquired into her public life; her private life; her hopes
and ambitions; her likes and dislikes; her hobbies; her opin-
ions on world affairs. In fact, we were still going strong when
the obliging actress found it necessary to excuse herself in
order to make a personal appearance at one of Peachtree's
leading theaters.

Back in The Journal city room I flung myself with un-
leashed energy on the masterpiece at hand. It would be a
classic. No doubt about it. I wondered as I pounded out
page after page if anyone had ever won a Pulitzer Prize
before on the basis of an interview with a movie actress.
Finally I had committed to paper all I had learned about
Miss Viola Dana, together with certain astute observations
and conclusions of my own. I turned my story in to the city
desk all twelve pages of it.

I returned to my desk in what I hoped was an attitude
of modesty to await Harllee Branch's verdict and to ponder
if maybe I wouldn't rate a substantial raise on the basis
of such a distinguished piece of reporting. I didn't have long
to wait. Mr. Branch raced through the voluminous manu-
script at what I considered to be unwarranted speed and
then lifted his voice.

"Keeler!" he shouted. "Come here a minute," Mr. Keeler
reported to the desk promptly. "Take this thing," Mr. Branch
said, waving my priceless literary treasure in a careless hand,

NO BUSINESS LIKE SHOW BUSINESS 129

"and see if you can boil it down to about a page of some-
thing that's fit to read."
There are times when a fellow wishes lie could drop dead.

Charles E. Kessnich, for many years the local manager
for Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, was the first person I ever knew
on Atlanta's Film Row. I was introduced to him by Frank
Powell, at the time an advertising solicitor for The Journal
Since that time, I understand, Mr. Powell has gone to
Florida where he invented a novelty called the Worry Bird
and spends most of his time counting money.

"Colonel" Kessnictf, as he was called (the ^ColoneF being
a touch I never fully understood but believe it may have
had something to do with being on a governor's staff at one
time or other), was a man who was more particular than
somewhat about the service when he was in a restaurant, and
an exceedingly keen student of the culinary art. He must
at some time in his life have done a considerable amount
of cooking, because he was extremely meticulous about the
manner in which his food was prepared.

One hardly ever ate a meal in public with Colonel
Kessnich without seeing him develop a terrible temper con-
cerning some facet of the service or the cookery. On one oc-
casion, however, a waiter at the Variety Club took a fall out
of the Colonel that left him speechless.

It seemed the Colonel wanted a Spanish omelette for his
lunch, and he wanted it built according to personal speci-
fications. Ramon, the venerable waiter in question, listened
attentively as the important Film Row executive gave speci-
fications. He wanted the eggs cooked not too much or too
little, but just right. He wanted the tomatoes and bell pep-
pers and other enumerated ingredients added in just the
right quantities at fust the right time. He wanted a small
garnish of parsley, but he didn't want too much or too little.

130 PEACHTREE PARADE

Ramon, an obsequious Negro with long experience as a
waiter, heard the Colonel out and then repaired to the
kitchen to impart his instructions.

Some fifteen minutes elapsed before Ramon made another
appearance and by that time Colonel Kessnich had worked
himself up into a veritable froth.

"Ramon," he yelled, "what in the hell has become of my
Spanish omelette?"

Ramon waited a cool ten seconds before replying and then
in a softly modulated tone.

"Colonel/' he finally replied as if it pained him to deliver
the message, "the chef says he ain't got time to fool with that
thing."

The silence was deafening.

It is likely that Dr. Floyd McRae, the distinguished Peach-
tree surgeon, is the only person in Atlanta who knows the
correct age of Harry Ballance, Southern division manager
for Twentieth Century-Fox. He acquired the information in
a roundabout way.

Mr. Ballance had been a patient of Dr. McRae from time
to time, and in response to questions about his age, indulged
in what might be considered a touch of whimsey by down-
grading himself by a considerable span of years. Whether
Dr. McRae had any suspicions as to the accuracy of the
figure Mr. Ballance was giving him is not a matter of public
record.

One evening while preparing for bed, however, Mr. Bal-
lance felt something give in the general region of his abdo-
men and immediately thereafter became consumed with a
raging fever and pains that refused to subside. He promptly
sent in a huny call for Dr. McRae, who responded, no doubt,
in one of his high-powered sports cars and issued a diagnosis

NO BUSINESS LIKE SHOW BUSINESS 181

that Mr. Ballance had busted a gut and must undergo Im-
mediate surgery to fend off the ravages of peritonitis.

Accordingly, Mr. Ballance was rushed to the Piedmont
Hospital and made ready for the ordeal while Dr. McRae
scrubbed himself, donned his surgical mask and rubber
gloves, and otherwise prepared to operate.

As the Film Row official was wheeled into the operating
room he motioned to his surgeon that he desired a small con-
ference. As the anxious surgeon leaned over his patient, the
latter said in a voice charged with urgency, "Floyd, you no
doubt recall that foolishness about my age. IVe been telling
you that I was of such-and-such an age [and he named a
figure]. I don't think you believed me, but that is beside the
point. Now, for God's sake, don't do anything to me that
a man of such-and-such an age [and here he revealed the
true figure] can't stand."

After Mr. Ballance had recovered from his operation Dr.
McRae reminded him that in a moment of panic he had im-
parted his correct age.

"That may be true," Mr. Ballance said, "but you are the
only one who knows. It was given to yon as a part of that
confidential relationship that exists between a physician and
his patient. I am protected by the Hippocratic oath and if
you should ever reveal my secret, I'll have you drummed out
of the American Medical Association."

Wherewith they both laughed, but Mr. Ballance's laugh
had more edge to it.

The late Willard Patterson was for a time manager of Sig
Samuels* Metropolitan Theater, in which, as an item of his-
tory, the first talking picture was shown in Atlanta. But talk-
ing pictures have nothing to do with this anecdote regarding
Mr. Patterson. The case in point is that the gaunt Mr. P.

132 PEACHTREE PARADE

had a deadly instinct for chiselers. He could smell out a
dead beat at a hundred paces.

To implement this observation let me recall an afternoon
when the Messrs. Dunbar Hair, Bryan Collier, and your
servant were strolling north on Broad Street after having
completed their labors for the nonce as members of the city
staff of The Journal. They were in search of entertainment,
and when they saw Mr. Patterson standing near the box of-
fice of his theater, they considered themselves in extremely
good luck.

"Ah," remarked Mr. Collier with enthusiasm. "There's
good old Pat standing out in the open. Let's jolly him a little
and then apply the bite for free entrance into his temple
of amusement."

Mr. Collier's suggestion appeared to be a sound one, so
the three young reporters gave Mr. Patterson big hellos and
otherwise made themselves as agreeable as they knew how.
As they were in the midst of their softening-up treatment
the telephone rang in the Metropolitan's box office and the
cashier indicated to the manager that he was wanted by
the party at the other end of the line. Mr. Patterson talked
briefly to his telephone caller and returned to the little group
on the sidewalk.

"Damndest thing you ever heard of," Mr. Patterson re-
marked with obvious reference to the call he had just re-
ceived. "Some no good dead beat calling to chisel me out
of a free ticket to the show. The hell with him!"

After a few more halfhearted remarks in the jolly vein
the Three Musketeers strolled on up to Peachtree without
making their pitch. It was several minutes before Mr. Hair
got sufficient control of himself to ask, "Do you suppose Pat
could have been kidding about his telephone caller's re-
quest?"

NO BUSINESS LIKE SHOW BUSINESS 133

After some thought we all agreed that it was entirely
possible.

Terry Turner, long connected with the exploitation of mo-
tion pictures and other special attractions, was the first press
agent I met along Peachtree. As I was somewhat callow in
my outlook on such matters, it was little wonder that my
eyes popped wide open when Mr. Turner showed up with an
East Indian fakir in tow and expressed his intention of bury-
ing the beturbaned one in a freshly dug grave in Piedmont
Park.

"This fellow," Mr. Turner announced, "can produce a
thing called suspended animation, whatever that is, and can
He in a cataleptic state resembling death itself for an in-
definite time. During such a period he doesn't eat or breathe.
So, even though we bury him and let him remain in the
grave for twenty-four hours, he will be fresh as a daisy when
we dig him up."

Since several hours were to elapse before the burial cere-
mony, Mr. Turner and I repaired to a suite in the Ansley
(now Dinkier Plaza) Hotel, where El Fakir, or whatever
he called himself, was preparing for the ordeal. By the time
we arrived it was apparent that catalysis was setting in be-
cause he was sitting there jabbing long needles into his
thighs without apparent pain.

"Want to see him stick a needle through his eyelid?" Mr.
Turner asked.

I begged off.

All tiiis time the fakir hadn't uttered a sound, although
he occasionally looked up as if expecting a round of applause
or nod of approval when he withdrew a needle from his
thigh.

"Look," Mr. Turner said as he directed my attention to

134 PEACHTREE PARADE

the place from which a needle had but recently been with-
drawn. "No blood."

And there wasn't.

In due course the hour arrived for transporting Mr.
Turner's protege to Piedmont Park for the burial. When we
got there, the grave was ready, and little time was lost in
filling it. The fakir was wound up in a bedsheet and dumped
into the hole, which was soon filled with dirt and rounded
over.

"Well," announced Mr. Turner, "let's get back to town
and have a little fun. We're not due back here for twenty-
four hours."

"But aren't you going to stand by in case something goes
wrong?" I inquired of the intrepid press agent.

"Hell, no/' he replied. "This guy knows his business, and
furthermore, there's no sense wasting a day and night sit-
ting around on the off chance that he might want to be dug
up ahead of time."

So, Mr. Turner and I returned to the hotel suite, where,
as the saying goes, a good time was had by all. Once or
twice I expressed some concern for the poor guy lying out
there in a grave in Piedmont Park, but Mr. Turner urged
me to forget him. "Probably having the best sleep he's had
in weeks" was the manner in which he turned it off.

Twenty-four hours can be an awfully long time, particu-
larly when your conscience keeps insisting that you may
have been a party to homicide, but it will pass if you just
wait long enough. And so it was that after the passage of
about twenty-three and a half hours we returned to the
burial site. By this time a goodly crowd had gathered, in-
cluding reporters from the other papers, photographers, and
just people who had nothing in particular to do.

"Before we exhume El Fakir," Mr. Turner announced to
the crowd, "I would like to say that he has been buried for

NO BUSINESS LIKE SHOW BUSINESS 135

twenty-four hours without food or drink or air. In other
words, to all intents and purposes he has been dead. We
have a physician here to examine him after we have dug him
up, and although what he has done defies medical science,
I am sure he will be in fine shape. One thing more El Fakir
will begin an engagement at Loew's Grand in a couple of
days. Watch the papers/ 7

His speech concluded, Mr. Turner signaled to a couple of
men with shovels, who fell to their task of exhuming El
Fakir with commendable zeal.

It wasn't long before the diggers unearthed the fakir, and
he was laid out on the ground and his winding sheet was
removed.

"How does he look, Doc?" Mr. Turner asked the attending
physician.

The man of medicine went over El Fakir with a stetho-
scope, felt for his pulse, and otherwise probed for signs of
life.

"I think he's dead," the doctor announced.

Mr. Turner wasn't convinced.

"Maybe he's just sleeping harder than usual," the press
agent suggested. "I've buried this guy lots of times and for
longer than this, and he always snaps out of it in a few
minutes."

After we had waited several minutes the doctor demanded
action.

"We'd better get this man to a hospital and see if he
can be revived," the physician said, "and unless we act
promptly I'm going to wash my hands of this whole affair."

By now Mr. Turner wasn't as calm as he had previously
been, and agreed to follow the suggestion. So, El Fakir was
bundled into an ambulance that Mr. Turner had standing
by strictly as window dressing, and I am happy to report

136 PEACHTBEE PARADE

that after a couple of hours of frantic effort the poor guy
was up and walking around again.

"What do you suppose happened?" I asked Mr. Turner
later as we sat in the hotel suite watching the fakir stick
needles in his thighs.

"He mustVe breathed" was the only explanation I ever
got.

In the theatrical history of America there had been few
stock companies to enjoy greater success than the Forsyth
Players, who lourished for three solid years in the early
twenties. They were housed principally in the Forsyth
Theater, which, if it existed now, would sit practically in the
center of the Dinkier Plaza's Knife and Fork Room. Part
of the time they played in the Lyric, which was razed to
make way for the Atlanta Athletic Club.

The Forsyth had been the home of Keith's two-a-day big-
time vaudeville and later housed three-a-day vaudeville
booked by Jules Delmar.

Dan Michalove was the organizer of the group and as a
gesture of local interest took O. B. Keeler and Fuzzy Wood-
ruff, of the Peachtree press, with him to New York on his
first talent scouting trip. The time spent in the Big Town
was exceedingly successful and, according to the Messrs.
Keeler and Woodruff, enjoyable.

In any case, Mr. Michalove, with or without much help
from his associate talent scouts, returned with a full com-
plement of players, including Clara Joel and William Boyd
(the stage actor, not Hopalong Cassidy) as his leading lady
and leading man, and the Forsyth Players were off to the
races.

Miss Joel and Mr. Boyd, let it be explained, were husband
and wife. Miss Joel was a quick study and Mr. Boyd was a
slow study, so it was nothing unusual on opening nights to

NO BUSINESS LIKE SHOW BUSINESS 187

hear the lovely actress speak the parts of both the leading
woman and the leading man as she tugged desperately to
pull Backward Bill through his lines.

Mr. Boyd, by the way, is the only actor I ever recall seeing
go to sleep on the stage during a regular performance. The
Players were doing Tiger Rose, I believe, and Mr. Boyd
was a Northwest Mounted Policeman or something. At
least, he was togged out in a terrific uniform, and during the
action it became necessary for him to lie in hiding on the
roof of a hut in order to entrap the villain.

When the crucial moment arrived and Miss Joel tossed her
husband his cue nothing happened. So, she tossed it
again . . . and again . . . and again. Realizing that she was
getting nowhere, Miss Joel reared back on her heels and
exploded: "Bill!"

Hearing his name pronounced clearly and distinctly and
somewhat peremptorily by his wife, Mr. Boyd roused from
his nap, stuck his head over the side of the hut while trying
to rub the sleep from his eyes, and delivered one of the
dullest lines ever spoken on any stage. It was: "Huh?"

The Forsyth Players enjoyed their greatest popularity dur-
ing the tenure of Belle Bennett and John Litel as the leading
players. Their appeal to the Peachtree public was so great
that tickets for all the performances of the plays in which
they appeared were at a premium. Many citizens bought
season tickets.

Odd as it may appear, Peachtree split into two feuding
factions over Miss Bennett and Mr. Litel. Bennett partisans
abhorred what they called the amateurish efforts of Mr. Litel,
while his supporters were equally contemptuous of what
they referred to as the posturing of Miss Bennett.

In any case, this rivalry was good for business, and the
Forsyth Players might be running yet if it hadn't been for

138 PEACHTREE PARADE

the fact that during the second act of Daddy Long-Legs
Miss Bennett and Mr. Litel got into a knock-down-and-drag-
out rhubarb on stage, and die curtain was rung down with
Miss Bennett in a dead faint on the floor.

Miss Bennett later went to Hollywood where she scored
a resounding success in the motion picture, Stella Dallas.
Mr. Litel played for a time on Broadway and then was called
to the film capital, where he has enjoyed a long and profit-
able career. He never reached star status but has worked
steadily in featured roles. Miss Bennett, unfortunately, was
a one-shotter. She never did anything worth while after
Stella.

Among the young talent brought to Atlanta for testing
with the Forsyth Players was an ingenue named Dorothy
Stickney whose work I must say in all candor was not at
the time sensational. She was, however, a lovely girl who
showed real promise. As the critic who covered the Forsyth
Pkyers, I even went so far as to predict great things for
her in the future. Little did I know at the time just how good
a predicter I was. Miss Stickney later married Howard Lind-
say, the actor-playwright who teamed with Russel Grouse
to write Life with Father.

To complete the record it must be put down here that
Miss Stickney was the original mother in Life with Father,
and quite a job she did of it, too.

Stock companies, as you know, do a play one week while
rehearsing another production for the following week. No
wonder it is considered the greatest training available for
aspiring actors and actresses that is, if they don't lose their
minds trying to master the demanding routine. Thus, it was
not unusual at times to hear an actor or actress deliver lines
that were completely out of context because well, while
acting in one play they would sometimes slip a mental cog

NO BUSINESS LIKE SHOW BUSINESS 189

and accompany the action with lines from next week's pro-
duction.

Also, in stock the personnel of the company changes fre-
quently. These changes are made in the interest of bringing
in fresh faces and in toning up a cast that may be going a
little stale.

After the Bennett-Litel hassle the leading masculine role
was given to a lively young actor with an engaging per-
sonality and a predeliction for smacking expensive auto-
mobiles against utility poles. During his brief tenure he
shattered no less than two.

It is to him that the distinction of being the only actor
I ever saw become physically ill on stage must be given. It
occurred during a matinee performance on a day after an
evening the actor had obviously spent in pursuits other than
studying his lines for the next week's production. It was
only by massive exercise of will power that he got on stage
at all, and thus it should not have been surprising when,
after a few moments, he stepped out of character, asked the
audience to forgive Mm, and then popped his cookies into
the footlights.

There were few dull moments with the Forsyth Players.
One afternoon a journalist who shall be unnamed was prowl-
ing backstage at the Forsyth in search of a spot of dog hair.
He had been led to believe that if a fellow played his cards
right he might induce the director, Walter Baldwin, to be-
stow on him a few strands of canine fuzz. As he stood on one
side of the stage he saw good old Walter on the other, and
by a signal (tilting the head back with the right hand in such
a position as to indicate that it might be holding a bottle)
he imparted his need to the sympathetic director. Since
signals were in order, Mr. Baldwin signified his attitude in
the matter by a sweeping motion of the right arm such as

140 PEACHTREE PARADE

might be employed by a winner at roulette raking in his
chips.

Overjoyed by his success the journalist started across the
stage and was about in the middle before realizing that he
was on the wrong side of the back drop. Instead of being
hidden from the view of the audience by a heavy curtain
of painted canvas he was on stage with an actor and actress
involved in a somewhat torrid love scene. The journalist,
however, was not without a certain savoir-faire. He uttered
a quiet word of greeting to the startled actor, who looked up
from his romantic labors in time to see the hopeful scribbler
disappearing into the wings.

Miss Tallulah Bankhead, of the Alabama Bankheads, ar-
rived in Atlanta one morning in her private railway car
preparatory to unveiling The Little Foxes on the stage of
the Erlanger (now Tower) Theater that evening. For years
I have been an admirer of Miss Bankhead and am one of the
few living critics who thoroughly enjoyed Lifeboat. In fact,
I can even endure her singing.

So it was with enthusiasm that I set out from The Journal
building to locate Miss Bankhead and, if possible, obtain
a small interview for the Final Home Edition. I rummaged
through the bowels of the Terminal Station for some time
before locating Miss Bankhead's car. Then, after assuring
some flunky of the urgency of my mission with regard to the
actress, I found myself in her presence.

In all candor I must report that Tallu (as some intimates
call her) was not a spectacle to dazzle the eyes or numb the
senses. She looked rather like something the cat dragged in.
She was swathed in a dressing gown of no particular dis-
tinction, her hair was a mess, and she had no face. In her
behalf let me explain that the hour was early (about

NO BUSINESS LIKE SHOW BUSINESS 141

9:00 A.M.), and Miss Bankhead had not been awake long
enough to get herself together. In fact, I thought it quite
decent of her to see me at all because most actresses wiH
not meet "the press" until everything is under control.

But that morning amid the sprawling railway yards of
Atlanta's principal rail terminal I acquired a new respect
for the tempestuous Tallulah. She had granted me an audi-
ence because she knew I worked on an afternoon newspaper
and must get the interview early or not at all.

"Please excuse the way I look, dahling," she said as she
tried to prop her eyes open. "I was in Montgomery last
night, and all the Bankheads were there, and you know what
that means."

I didn't know exactly what that meant, of course, but I
wasn't to be caught napping.

"Quite so," I muttered, perhaps already under the Bank-
head influence.

She curled up on a seat and fixed me with her half-open
eyes.

"Let's get this over with as quickly as possible, dahling,"
she suggested. "I must get myself together and go to the
hotel. I know you are not interested in talking to me any
more than I am interested in talking to you. It's just your
job and my job. No offense. I just don't want to talk to any-
body at this time of day."

Then her manner brightened.

"Stay as you are a few minutes," she said to my surprise.
"Ill get my things on and let you walk me out to the taxi
stand."

In an astonishingly short time Miss Bankhead was dressed,
and we were on our way through the Terminal. As we stood
in front of the station and I was thinking how little I had to
write for an interview, she fished around in her handbag and
came up with a crumpled piece of yellow paper.

142 PEACHTKEE PARADE

"I'm rather proud of this/' she said as she Banded the
scrap of paper to me.

It was a cabled Christmas greeting from Winston
Churchill.

Who says dramatic actresses don't have a sense of drama?

Mention of Sir Winston calls to mind the time I inter-
viewed his daughter, Sarah, over WSB. Miss Churchill was
in town to play the leading role in a production of the ill-
fated Penthouse Theater that embellished the Peachtree
scene all too briefly.

Miss Churchill had been somewhat elusive. That is, Betty
Collins, the resourceful producer of WSB's Views of the
News program, on which Miss Churchill and I were to be
heard, had experienced some difficulty in obtaining her con-
sent to be interviewed. Finally, Betty won her point as she
always did in one way or another by arranging to have
the interview tape-recorded during a lull in rehearsal.

There was considerable waiting around, and I was be-
coming a bit edgy when Miss Churchill at last put in her
appearance.

"So sorry/' she said in a most gracious manner. "It's too
bad to keep you waiting, but there are so many things to
do, don't you know."

She was apparently sincere about the whole thing. But
what made the greatest impression on me were the ground
rules she laid down for the interview.

"I don't wish to be unkind," she said, "or unco-operative.
But I wish it clearly understood that I shall answer no ques-
tions having to do with my father, nor shall I discuss him
or his work in any way. I hope you understand my position,
but even if you don't, that's the way it must be."

I understood Sarah Churchill's position thoroughly. She

NO BUSINESS LIKE SHOW BUSINESS 143

was an actress who wanted to make her way in the theater
without benefit of Papa and was determined to do so.

At this point Betty Collins got into the conversation.

"May we refer to you as the daughter of Winston Church-
ill in the introduction?" she asked.

"I would rather you didn't," Miss Churchill replied, **but
I don't see how it can be avoided/*

Nice girl.

Adolphe Menjou, the Hollywood fashion plate and man
about movies, was in Atlanta as part of a promotional project
arranged by Rich's, Atlanta's largest department store. He
was approached to submit to an interview on WSB's Views

of the News program with me tossing the queries. He agreed
readily.

Mr. Menjou in person is just as suave as the Mr. Menjou
of the films. Furthermore, he is a keen student of inter-
national affairs and discusses them brilliantly. But for the
radio chitchat it was decided to keep him in character and
discuss only clothes and motion pictures.

The interview proceeded nicely and according to plan
with the actor proving to be as facile an ad-libber as one
could wish. During the back-and-forth it had been "Mr.
Menjou, this," "Mr. Menjou, that," "Mr. Rogers, this,"
"Mr. Rogers, that."

As the interview was drawing to a close, I said a few
words of appreciation to the actor for having participated in
the interview. Mr. Menjou, naturally, was not to be outdone.

"And I want to thank you, too, Mr. Turner," intoned
Mr. Menjou in his best stage voice.

After the broadcast was over, Mr. Menjou turned to me
with a stricken look.

"How did that fellow Turner get in here?" he asked.

144 PEACHTKEE PAKADE

Tm sure I don't know," I replied. "He must be your
friend. You brought him in."
Adolphe's guffaw shook the microphones.

There has never been such a backstage crew as the one
that worked at Loew's Grand during the twenties and
thirties. Jimmy Bramlett was the stage carpenter, Eddie
Davenport handled the lights, John Harper was the prop-
erty master, Julius MacMillan rode the flies, and the Gates
boys, Froggy Rogers, and others took a hand from time
to time.

They were at their best during the Yuletide parties the
management of Loew's Grand customarily threw on Christ-
mas Eve. These events were for the benefit of the acts on
the bill, stagehands, ushers, projectionists, managers in
fact, everybody who worked in the theater.

These jollifications began from necessity after the show
had been done for the night, and did not get under way until
midnight or later. For entertainment, the actors and ac-
tresses would present impromptu skits, the stagehands
would organize a quartet, or something, and everyone
would take a hand in making the party a success. The man-
agement, for its part, would spare no expense on food or
drink.

It was during one of these jollifications that the notion
struck Julius MacMillan and Louis Bach, at that time the
motion-picture projectionist, to entertain with an adagio act.
Inasmuch as Mr. MacMillan was good for 250 pounds on
anybody's set of scales and Mr. Bach would have done
well to ring up a century wearing lead pants, it was de-
cided that the former would be the catcher and the latter
would be the leaper. As you know, in an adagio routine

NO BUSINESS LIKE SHOW BUSINESS 145

there is a lot of running and jumping, and there are said to
be those who enjoy watching the graceful flight of the
human body through the air and the resultant catch at the
end of the leap. I don't happen to be one of those who cares
for that sort of gymnastics.

On the evening of reference, though, things were different.
After all, Mr. MacMillan and Mr. Bach were not professional
adagio dancers and we were having a party, weren't we?

So, the boys squared away and everybody else stood back
to watch. Mr. Bach disappeared into the wings with the
avowed intention of getting such a start that when he leaped
he would likely sail right out of the building, Mr. MacMillan,
on the other hand, was a picture of solidarity as he stood to
one side of the stage and prepared to catch his little bitty
buddy as, when, and if he came hurtling into his arms.

Mr. Bach, let it be said, was as good as his word. He came
whizzing onto the stage like a Zacchini being fired from
a cannon, and when he was some ten feet from his catcher,
took to the air. As a matter of fact, he was in full flight when
Jimmy Bramlett sought to attract Mr. MacMillan's atten-
tion on some matter of more or less importance. To do this
he shouted "J^ 6 ^ *& a rather demanding voice, and Mr.
MacMillan, for just a split second, turned his head to de-
termine who was calling.

That split second, though, was what tore it. Mr. Mac-
Millan's concentration had been disturbed, and by the
time he got it back on the track Mr. Bach had already sailed
by and was mingling noisily with the drums and other per-
cussion instruments in the orchestra pit.

The instant Mr. MacMillan realized what he had done he
began showering apologies on his fellow adagioist

"Don't give it another thought, Jule,** Mr. Bach said by

146 PEACHTREE PABADE

way of reassuring his old pal. "The way I do an adagio it
really goes better without a catcher."

He was, to say the least, full of confidence.

When I was dramatic critic of The Journal, it was my
custom to drop backstage at intermission or after the
show for a chat with one or more of the principals after
the opening on Peachtree. In this way I frequently picked
up a bit of human interest for my review andwell, I liked
to meet show people.

And so it was the evening after a performance of Watch
on the Rhine at the Tower in which Mr. Paul Lukas had
given a magnificent performance. All during the unfoldment
of the drama I had been fascinated by Mr. Lukas's hair. It
was a rich brown in color with a neat wave at just the
proper place. It added greatly to his appearance and even
at times took my attention from the play.

Anyhow, after the last curtain I went to Mr. Lukas's
dressing room and found him in the process of removing his
make-up.

"It is unbearably hot back here, don't you think?" Mr.
Lukas said by way of opening the conversation.

"I hadn't noticed the heat particularly," I answered.

"Well," said Mr. Lukas, "if s too much for me."

Whereupon, he reached up, took hold of that beautiful
head of hair, and yanked it off, displaying a perfectly naked
skull. I couldn't have been more astonished if he had re-
moved his nose or unscrewed one of his ears.

Will Rogers, at the heyday of his fame and popularity,
played a lecture engagement at the Erlanger under the
auspices of the Alkahest Celebrity Series. It was the only
time I ever saw the theater completely filled. Every seat in
the house was occupied. The orchestra pit was filled with

NO BUSINESS LIKE SHOW BUSINESS 147

customers. Contrary to the fire laws, the aisles were filed,
and on the stage only enough room was left for the cowboy
humorist, philosopher, and student of human nature to
stand. All the standing room was taken.

Eugene R. Black, at that time one of Atlanta's most
prominent legal and banking figures, was called on to intro-
duce Mr. Rogers as if he needed an introduction. Mr. Black,
no slouch as a humorist himself, had the audience rocking
as he made one loaded remark after another. When he
finally called Will from the wings, the pride of Claremore
looked out from under that shock of unruly hair and said,
"You'd better keep that old bald-headed fellow out here,
He's better than I am."

Will Rogers stood there on the stage for more than two
hours with his hands in and out of his pockets, whacking
that chewing gum a mile a minute, and completely en-
tranced his hearers.

I had been with Will during the afternoon before the
performance, and I never underwent such a grilling in my
life. He wanted to know all about everything and everybody
in Atlanta. His curiosity was insatiable. During the lecture,
however, I discovered the reason for his exhaustive cross-
questioning. He had taken my information, processed it in
that remarkable brain of his, and fed it to the audience with
his own individual touch. I at last understood how he got
that 'local flavor" for which he was famous.

During the middle of the afternoon we were together
Will excused himself for about forty-five minutes to, as he
said, write a little piece for the papers. He was then writing
front-page squibs on topics of current interest that were
syndicated and published in hundreds of newspapers. When
he returned from his task, I volunteered to take his copy
by the Western Union office and file it for him.

"No, thanks," he replied. "That is one little chore I per-

148 PEACHTREE PARADE

form for myself. I never let anybody take my piece to the
telegraph office for me not even a uniformed messenger.
You see, there's a heap of money riding on this little ding-
bat, and I don't want to take the slightest risk of it getting
lost or misplaced,"

The evening before, Will had been the guest of Major
Cohen at a dinner in the Piedmont Driving Club. In order
to acquaint his honor guest with those present the Major
went around the table introducing them. As he called each
name, he told in what line of business the man was engaged
and the title he held. As it happened there were a lot of vice-
presidents present.

At the conclusion of the Major's introduction Mr. Rogers
arose and said to his host:

"Major, the next time you invite me to dinner I hope youTl
put in your first team. What I mean let me meet a few
presidents."

The crowd roared.

Juddie Johnson was the first man to make a night club
stick on Peachtree. There were many who tried, but it
wasn't until Juddie took the Spanish Room in the Henry
Grady Hotel, later transformed it into the Paradise Room
and put in a noontime floor show, that the trick was turned.
The noon show (actually going on about 1:15 P.M.) was
popular with the public but gave the acts fits.

"Who ever heard of going to see a night-club floor show
in the middle of the day?" more than one performer was
heard to ask. But Mr. Johnson knew the temper of the trade
and insisted and persisted until it was established.

Among Juddie's favorite acts was Dolly Dawn, a rather
plump chanteuse who could really peddle a song. On her
visits to the Paradise Room she was always accompanied by

NO BUSINESS LIKE SHOW BUSINESS 149

her manager, George Hall, who for years led the band in
New York's Taft Hotel.

When Dolly and George would hit town, the routine
was invariably the same.

"Miss Dawn is on her way to the Coast to star in a pic-
ture," Mr. Hall would explain to the press. "She is now a
little overweight and is playing a few night-club dates to
thin herself down."

So far as I know Miss Dawn never lost any weight, and
I don't seem to recall seeing her starred in a movie. But as a
fellow who prowled the night clubs with rare reportorial
zeal, I may be able to offer a reason why the delightful Dolly
didn't shed her pounds rapidly. At that time the Henry
Grady had a cook who was a wizard at building fried
chicken, and Miss Dawn was a genius at tearing it down.
Many a night I have sat at her training table and watched
her put away a double order of the golden brown with such
fixings on the side as seemed appropriate.

Another of Juddie's favorites was Gene Austin, the Louisi-
ana lark who sang a song called "My Blue Heaven" so well
that it sold 4,000,000 records at a time when 200,000 was a
tremendous score. Genial Gene took a fall after his career
had reached great heights, and he has never really come all
the way back. But he's still a good, solid act, and Mr. John-
son, at the time to which I refer, enjoyed his company and
the customers he pulled in.

To say Juddie Johnson was merely diligent in the pro-
motion and operation of the Paradise Room is to deal in
understatement. He was obsessed. From early morning until
late at night he was on the job. In fact, he practically lived
in the place. And this intense application to duty may in part
explain the commotion Mr. Johnson created on Peachtree
one afternoon just as people were hurrying home from their
chores in the city.

150 PEACHTREE PAUAJDE

It was, I should say, slightly after five o'clock when he
poked his nose out of the hotel and took a few steps on
Peachtree. Then he was seen to totter, turn pale, and fall
to the sidewalk gasping. A crowd immediately assembled
with no one knowing exactly what to do.

Some suggested one thing and some another, and all was
confusion until a prosperous Peachtree booking agent came
up and took charge.

"Get him back into the hotel and into the Paradise Room
at once," the booking agent commanded. "That's all he
needs. This boy has inhaled so much cigar and cigarette
smoke and Martini fumes that his lungs just aren't equipped
to handle fresh air/'

The booking agent's orders were carried out, and Mr.
Johnson's recovery was practically instantaneous.

In time Mr. Johnson and the management of the Henry
Grady came to a parting of the ways, and he was succeeded
by several managers, notably Mr. Nu Nu Chastain, who is
a gifted vibraharpist and orchestra leader. As Mr. Chastain's
hairline receded, he did two things: (1) changed his name
and (2) bought a pair of toupees.

The reason for the first of these moves was that Mr. C.
did not consider the nickname Nu Nu quite formal enough
for the manager of the Paradise Room, and anyway he
didn't change his name very much. His first two names are
Charles and Fleming, so he eliminated his surname and his
nickname and came up with Charles Fleming, as hoity-toity
a moniker as one could wish. *

The reason Mr. Chastain, as I shall continue to call him,
bought two hair pieces resulted from his passion for real-
ism. He realized that the hair on a toupee doesn't grow and
that a man who never gets a haircut is an oddity.

NO BUSINESS LIKE SHOW BUSINESS 151

So, lie bought one rug with the nap very even and another
that was a trifle ragged around the edges, so that about
every ten days he could wear it for a day, then don the
smoothie and get credit for having made a visit to the barber.

Herman Steinichen, business agent of the local musicians'
union, is known to his friends as Happy. He also is some-
times referred to in the press as "The Peachtree Petrillo."

Mr. Steinichen, who wouldn't weigh a hundred pounds
with his pockets full of rocks, has been thrilling Peachtree
for years with a vivid account of a shocking experience he
once had while visiting the Grand Canyon.

It seems that the hardy percussionist and former French-
horn player (a dental calamity made horn playing imprac-
tical) had made the trip down into the canyon all right, but
on the way up the burro on which he was riding fell out from
under him and went tumbling hundreds (maybe thousands)
of feet to the bottom of the big ditch. When the burro fell,
Mr. Steinichen leaped nimbly onto the pathway and was not
harmed.

It is understandable that he should have been shaken
by the accident, but he had recovered a measure of sang-
froid by the time attendants at the Grand Canyon came to
his assistance.

"What happened to cause the burro to fall?" they asked.

"I ate a hearty breakfast this morning," the Peachtree
Petrillo explained somewhat expansively as he drew himself
up to his full five feet, "and I must have been too heavy for
the little fellow."

The newspaperman would find his association with show
people much less interesting if it weren't for the press agents.
More often than not they are more interesting than the

personalities in whose behalf they are working, and there is

152 PEAOHTREE PARADE

a constant temptation to write about them instead of the
trained seals in their charge.

Take, for example, Jimmie Gillespie who works out of the
Twentieth Century-Fox office in Dallas. The Senator, as he is
called by his friends because of a certain air about him, was
business manager of the Paul Whiteman orchestra when it
was the most famous band in the land.

The Senator recalls with relish the time Clarence Mackay,
father-in-law of Irving Berlin and onetime president of the
Postal Telegraph Company, was throwing a party for the
Prince of Wales (now the Duke of Windsor) .

"All of the bands in and around New York were in a sweat
to get the engagement," he relates, "not only because it
would bring a good fee but for prestige reasons. As manager
of the Whiteman band, I decided to play it cozy and made no
effort to contact the Mackay people, but about ten days be-
fore the party a representative of Mr. Mackay got in touch
with me to inquire if we were available for the festive eve-
ning.

"It just so happened that we were free that evening
although it took a lot of doing to get 'free' and accepted the
booking. Mr. Mackay's representative said nothing to me
about money, and still playing it cozy, neither did I.

"At the Mackay estate there was a slight hitch. Some
flunky informed us that the musicians would use the serv-
ants* entrance. Paul flipped his lid and informed all and
sundry that his boys went through the front door or not at
all. This was eventually straightened out and we went in by
way of the front door.

"The engagement was a great success and made so, in part,
by the fact that the Prince sat in at the drums for a while and
otherwise contributed to the gaiety of the evening.

"Nothing was said that evening about money, and I let
it ride. About a week later, however, we received a check

NO BUSINESS LIKE SHOW BUSINESS 153

for $5,000 from Mr. Mackay which wasn't so bad for one
night's work and particularly in view of the fact that $5,000
was a nice bundle of money in those days."

Jimmie was also managing the Whiteman outfit when they
went to Calif omia to make The King of Jazz for Universal. It
was a film designed to glorify Mr. Whiteman and popular
dance music in general. But the studio didn't have a suitable
story ready, so Mr. Whiteman and his boys sat around on
salary playing golf, wrecking automobiles, and generally
having a high old time. Bing Crosby got jugged for some in-
fraction or other that was before he went under the manage-
ment of Dixie Lee and there was much ado about getting
him out, but this was accomplished in due time.

"The King of Jazz** Mr. Gillespie relates, "was a monu-
mental mess and would have been a colossal flop if it hadn't
been for one thing. At the time it was released to the trade
a vicious thing called Uock booking' was in effect. In *block
booking' an exhibitor was forced to buy a picture he didn't
want in order to get one he did want. So, in order for the ex-
hibitors to get The King of Jazz, they had to buy another
picture, which, fortunately for everyone concerned, was All
Quiet on the Western Front, one of the greatest pictures ever
made."

Emery Austin, of Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, has a reputation
for being a well-disciplined man and gave a beautiful
demonstration of self-control when he took a group of
Southern journalists to New York for the world premiere of
a major M-G-M opus.

Among those in his party was a writer* from Peachtree
who seized upon the occasion to enjoy a twenty-four-carat
binge. This wayward member of the Fourth Estate loused up

* He's no longer in the business.

154 PEACHTKEE PARADE

a fine dinner party by announcing that the food and service
in one of New York's plushiest restaurants were lousy just
before stalking out. From that moment until two days later
none of us laid eyes on the erring one. He missed the excit-
ing activities that had been arranged for the visiting scribes,
including the premiere, which was the principal object of
the meeting.

Mr. Austin's patience was a beautiful thing to behold up
to and including a point some three hundred miles out of
New York as we were winging our way back to Peachtree.
The lounge of the airplane in which our party was seated
(including our jaundiced journalist, who was by this time
in the throes of a king-size hang-over and was moaning
piteously) featured a pair of parakeets who were chattering
merrily away and, if I wasn't mistaken, had matters of
romance on their minds.

"Emery/' the hung-over wordsmith pleaded, "won't you
please get the stewardess to take those birds somewhere
else and strangle them or throw them off the plane or other-
wise make them quit driving me crazy with their infernal
racket."

Mr. Austin looked at the wretched writer for a moment
with what appeared to be an expression of compassion, but
in reality it was merely the calm before the storm.

"Ill do no such thing," the outraged publicist exploded as
his patience blew a gasket. "And, furthermore, I hope those
parakeets escape from their cage and peck your damn brains
out!"

Spence Pierce, before becoming a prosperous drive-in
theater magnate in Knoxville, Tennessee, was on the pub-
licity staff of Twentieth Century-Fox in Atlanta. His num-
ber came up in the draft for World War II, and he went out

NO BUSINESS LIKE SHOW BUSINESS 155

to Fort McPherson for his physical and, as it turned out, his
mental.

He was doing just dandy until he found himself in the
office of an examining psychiatrist who put him through a
series of tests designed to determine his fitness, brainwise,
for army service. It might be interpolated at this point that
Mr. Pierce had gone in training for his examination about
four o'clock the previous afternoon and had stayed with it
until time to leave for the Fort. He had subsisted for some
eighteen hours on a strictly liquid diet.

So, it was not surprising that when the psychiatrist brought
his hand down with a mighty whack on the table at which
Mr. Pierce was seated that the press agent's lack of con-
dition was revealed. At the sudden and explosive noise he
began climbing the walls and showing other signs of extreme
agitation.

"Just as I thought,** the examiner commented.

"What?" Mr. Pierce inquired.

"You're neurotic."

"What does that mean?"

"It means you're nuts."

Mr. Pierce was outraged by this statement and in giving
vent to his feelings brought his hand down on the table with
a mighty whack. To his great surprise the psychiatrist also
began climbing the walls, rolling his eyes, wringing his
hands, and giving every outward evidence of going to pieces.

"Hey, Doc!" Mr. Pierce said to the psychiatrist after he
had brought himself under a semblance of control. "I don't
see how you got in the army yourself because, if your test
is worth a damn, you're crazy, too."

Leonard Allen, of Paramount, is a motion-picture pub-
licist who believes in getting the maximum amount of work

156 PEACHTREE PARADE

out of a movie star who is routed through His territory for
purposes of publicity and sales promotion.

On getting notice that he is to wet-nurse a star through a
day or two on Peachtree he immediately gets busy arranging
newspaper interviews, radio and TV bookings, luncheons,
stage appearances, and the other gimmicks that make a celeb-
rity's visit pay off.

Last summer Mr. Bob Hope, the amiable and agreeable
comedian, was routed into Atlanta to stimulate interest in an
upcoming film effort. The moment he touched ground at the
Atlanta Airport, Mr. Allen immediately put him on the merry-
go-round with a schedule of activities that left him hardly a
moment to himself.

Late in the day, after having raced from one engagement
to another with hardly a pause, Bob turned to Lennie and in
tones of extreme supplication said, "Mr. Allen, I know it's
not on the schedule, but may I please go to the men's room?"

Well, when you gotta you gotta, even if you are a movie
star.

Frank Braden, of "The Greatest Show on Earth," has never
succeeded in strangling himself with those tight collars he
wears, but he has had newspapermen all over the country
worried half to death for fear that he will.

Just why Frank insists on wearing collars that obviously
are a size or two too small has never been fully explained,
and anyhow, it's his own business. The last time I saw him
was in Sarasota, Florida, where Cecil B. DeMille was making
his fine picture about the circus, and Frank was involved
with the publicity. Even then he apparently was just a few
tugs away from strangulation.

Although he will not come right out and admit it, there is
a strong feeling in newspaper circles that Frank triggered

NO BUSINESS LIKE SHOW BUSINESS 157

one of the greatest press-agent stunts of the twentieth cen-
tury when he placed a midget on the lap of J. P. Morgan
during an important hearing in Washington, D.C.

The resultant picture was printed in practically every
newspaper in the United States and the fact that the midget
was a performer with the Ringling Bros. Barnum & Bailey
Circus wasn't bad publicity for the Big Show.

But Frank Braden, the man most likely to have planted
the midget where she would do the most good from a pub-
licity standpoint, won't say yes, and he won't say no.

Cecil B. DeMille, perhaps the most successful producer
and director of motion pictures in the history of the leaping
lithographs, is a stem man on the set when he's at work. He's
in complete command and will tolerate no interference.

One day while Lennie Allen and I were on the set of "The
Greatest Show on Earth," Mr. DeMille called everything to
a halt because two young girl extras being used as a part of
the crowd attending a circus performance appeared to be
trying to outtalk him.

"All right, girls," Mr. DeMille said into the public-address
microphone he carried in his hand, "since what you have to
say is obviously so much more important than what I am

saying, please come down and let us all in on the conversa-

. .

tion.

The girls, naturally, were embarrassed by suddenly being
thrust into the spotlight and were reluctant to accept Mr.
DeMille's invitation, but the distinguished director insisted.
After they had finally made their way to where Mr. DeMille
was standing, one of the girls asked the director if he really
wanted them to repeat exactly what was being said at the
time they attracted his attention.

"Yes," Mr. DeMille insisted, "tell us exactly what was being
said."

158 PEACHTREE PARADE

"Well/' said one of the girls as slie writhed in front of the
microphone, "I was merely saying to my girl friend, 1 wonder
when that old bald-headed rascal is going to call a break for
lunch? 7 "

The great director looked startled for a moment, and then
a big smile illuminated his face. Taking the microphone from
the hand of the embarrassed girl, he shouted:

"Lunch!"

And everybody broke for the chuck wagon chuckling, of
course.

Mr. DeMille and Atlanta's Mayor Bill Hartsfield first met
when the former came to Peachtree in connection with the
premiere of a picture he had made called The Buccaneer. A
young Atlanta actress named Evelyn Keyes played a minor
role in the film; so minor, in fact, that one of her friends at
the premiere dropped a handkerchief, and by the time she
had picked it up off the fioor Miss Keyes's part in the pic-
ture was concluded.

Mr. DeMille and Mr. Hartsfield hit it off in fine fashion
from the very first and were on a real buddy-buddy basis
when it came time for His Honor to introduce the dis-
tinguished visitor to the audience in the Fox Theater.

Just one thing bothered the Mayor. On Peachtree a man
who spells his name Oe-c-i-1 pronounces it "CEE-cT but
Mr. DeMille's Christian name is pronounced "CESS-1." The
Mayor spent considerable time perfecting the British manner
of pronouncing "Cecil," but on the stage he was horrified to
hear himself say, "Ladies and gentlemen, it gives me great
pleasure to present that incomparable maker of motion pic-
tures-Mr. CESS-I B. DeMffly "

He was just overcoming his confusion when he heard the

NO BUSINESS LIKE SHOW BUSINESS 159

incomparable maker of motion pictures respond, "Thank
you, Mayor HATfield "
To this day Mayor Bill thinks it was deliberate.

Atlanta's Mayor, by the way, has long been a friend of
show business. He can always be counted on to attend
premieres, introduce famous entertainment personalities,
participate in legitimate publicity gags, and otherwise lend
a hand in any way he can. He has swapped ad libs with the
best of them and has never finished worse than in a tie for
first place.

Several years ago somebody showed up on Peachtree with
a talking horse. As a part of the publicity stunt the Mayor
allowed the animal to be brought into his office in City Hall.

The stunt, naturally, created considerable interest, and
people flocked in to witness the unusual sight. Being a man
who doesn't like to disappoint a crowd even when it's not
an election year Mayor Bill addressed a few remarks to
those present.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, "I think you will agree
with me that this is a most unusual occurrence. At least, it is
unique in my experience as Mayor of the City of Atlanta.
Just to give you an idea of how unique it is during all the
years I have been mayor this is the first time I have ever been
visited in this office by an entire horse/'

When Feodor Chaliapin, the celebrated Russian basso
profundo, made his first visit to Peachtree as a star of the
Metropolitan Opera Company he could speak only two
words of English. Despite his limited vocabulary, however,
he got along splendidly with tiie home folks.

Chaliapin, besides making a tremendous score with his
superb singing, was a center of attention at both formal and

160 PEACHTREE PARADE

informal parties in connection with the presence of the Met.
The ladies found him charming, and the men claimed him
as their own.

He told stories in Russian that no one understood, but his
acting was so effective that a few standers-around were con-
fident they got the point of one or two. Chaliapin, of course,
furnished his own laughter.

When the great basso departed, he left behind many en-
chanting memories of a convivial soul who enjoyed life to
the last drop.

Oh, by the way those two words he knew were "White
Rock."

Nunnally Johnson, the highly successful motion-picture
producer, director, and writer, is a native of Columbus,
Georgia, which you might say is on the outskirts of Our
Town. We were together at a party in Hollywood, where
The Journal had sent me to record the plain and fancy annals
of those who make the leaping lithographs.

As Mr. Johnson and I were chatting, Earl Wilson, the
Broadway columnist widely known for his anatomical re-
search, hove up.

"Earl," said Mr. Johnson to the Boswell of the Bosoms, "I
want you to meet Ernie Rogers, of The Atlanta Journal. I
don't think you fellows will have much in common, though,
because Ernie writes only from the neck up."

Delicious and Refreshing

WHEN YOU BEGIN CASTING ABOUT TO DETERMINE PEACHTREE'S
most famous product it is not difficult to find. It is Coca-Cola,
the most fantastically successful soft drink in the history of
swallowing.

And Asa G. Candler, who first realized its possibilities and
promoted it to a point where in 1919 it was sold for $25,-
000,000, is generally recognized as Peachtree's all-time "First
Citizen."

The history of Atlanta is ablaze with the names of men
who helped build the burned-out town of 1865 into the jewel
of the Southeast and one of the nation's most prosperous and
progressive cities with a population now nudging 1,000,000.
Some of the names come readily to mind: Jonathan Norcross,
Hardy Ivy, Robert F. Maddox, Henry W. Grady, James W.
English, William Lawson Peel, Colonel Robert Lowry, John

161

162 PEACHTREE PARADE

M. Slaton, J. M. High, Forrest and George Adair, the How-
ells, Preston S. Arkwright, W. A. Hemphill, Joel Hurt, Walter
Rich. . . . The list is long and illustrious.

But if any one man may be said to have had more to do
with the growth and progress of Atlanta than any other indi-
vidual it was Asa G. Candler. He not only accumulated a
great fortune for himself but was instrumental directly and
indirectly in making others rich and in boosting the economic
standards of the community.

There is hardly a millionaire in Atlanta today who does not
ascribe his wealth in part, if not wholly, to that block of Coca-
Cola stock he or his immediate forebears bought and tucked
away securely in a bank vault. The most fabulous era of
Coca-Cola's growth came after Mr. Candler's company was
sold but he planted the seeds.

Besides being a genius of finance, Mr. Candler was a
Christian leader prompted by altruistic motives. His gifts
during his lifetime of $8,000,000 to Emory University made
possible one of the SoutFs outstanding institutions of higher
learning.

During the cotton panic of 1914, when the European war
had closed major overseas markets for the staple and King
Cotton seemed mortally stricken, it was Asa G. Candler who
announced that he, through his bank (the Central Bank and
Trust Corporation), would lend six cents a pound on cotton
to the extent of his $30,000,000 fortune to save the farmers
from ruin. If the price of cotton failed to go up, according to
Mr. Candler's proposition, the farmer lost nothing; if it did
rise, he could redeem his cotton at an extremely low rate of
interest and sell it for what he could get It was strictly a
"heads I win, tails you lose" deal for the cotton farmer.
Furthermore, Mr. Candler built the largest warehouse in the
world at that time (forty acres under a roof) to house the
staple.

DELICIOUS AND REFRESHING 163

In 1916, with the City of Atlanta's finances in a chaotic
condition, Mr. Candler was drafted to run for mayor. His
opponent was Jesse W. Aimistead, a linotype operator for
The Atlanta Journal. After his election, Mr. Candler went
through the city budget with characteristic thoroughness
and by practicing strict economy was able to report on his
retirement from the mayoralty in January, 1919, that al
amounts required by the city charter to be in the treasury
were provided for and that a balance of $43,000 remained to
pay any bills that might be outstanding.

In 1915, Mr. Candler bought an entire bond issue of the
State of Georgia for some $3,000,000 because New York
bankers and investment houses failed to make satisfactory
bids and, through his generosity, saved the state almost a
quarter of a million dollars on the deal.

In 1922 Mr. Candler gave the City of Atlanta fifty-three
acres of choice land in the Druid Hills section to be used as a
park and recreational center. It is now Candler Park, one of
Atlanta's most delightful areas for public recreation.

I have reviewed these few instances of Mr. Candle/s civic-
mindness and philanthropy (and there are many, many
more) to demonstrate that here was a man with an unex-
celled genius for making money who also had a consuming
passion for the betterment of his city, his state, and his
section.

It has been said of Asa G. Candler that "every time he
made a million dollars he made a million dollars for some-
one else/'

Many versions are given of the manner in which Asa G.
Candler obtained possession of the Coca-Cola formula and
ownership of the business. One is that Dr. J. S. Pemberton,
the Atlanta druggist who originated the formula, was on his
deathbed and was troubled by the fact that he was in debt
to Mr. Candler for a small sum and gave him the formula

164 PEACHTREE PARADE

and the business to satisfy the indebtedness and soothe his
own conscience.

Yet the truth seems to be that by an expenditure of about
$2,000 Mr. Candler obtained from various parties at interest
the formula, trade-mark, and all other rights to the marvelous
mixture that was to catapult him into riches beyond his wild-
est dreams. So we see that an initial investment of $2,000
in 1891 was parlayed into $25,000,000 by 1919-a pretty fair
country profit in twenty-eight years.

The trade-mark "Coca-Cola" was originally inscribed by
F. M. Robinson, long an official of the company, and the flow-
ing script was merely in keeping with the fancy penmanship
he affected. For many years the only sales slogan Coca-Cola
used was "Delicious and Refreshing/* which has been attrib-
uted to the late Samuel C. Dobbs, also a long-time member
of the original Coca-Cola team.

Since its inception only a few men have been entrusted
with the formula for Coca-Cola, and it is one of the most
closely guarded secrets in American business.

I was once discussing the Coca-Cola formula with an
executive of the company and pointed out that it should be
no great task for a competent analytical chemist to determine
the components of the syrup.

"That is quite true," he said, "but your chemist can't tell
you just when and how and under what conditions the
various ingredients are mixed."

He had me there.

Few products in the history of American business have
been advertised as extensively as Coca-Cola and the format
has always been essentially the same a pretty girl, alone
or with other pretty girls or a handsome boy friend, enjoying
"The Pause That Refreshes/'

For many years Atlanta received world-wide publicity by

DELICIOUS AND REFRESHING 165

virtue of the fact tibat in all Coca-Cola advertisements the
city's name was always tucked away in a corner of every ad.
Scripto, the fast-moving Atlanta concern that is currently
dominating the mechanical-pencil and ball-point-pen market,
is now carrying the ball.

So numerous are the outdoor and indoor advertisements
for Coca-Cola that it is virtually impossible to take a picture
of anything, anywhere, without having a Coca-Cola sign
within camera range. That, I believe, is what the boys call
"saturation."

Mr. Candler had an abiding faith in Peachtree real estate
and during his lifetime owned great parcels of it, and his
heirs continue to find it profitable.

Being a man of large ideas, Mr. Candler decided Atlanta
should have a building commensurate with its future, so in
1906 the Candler Building, at Peachtree, Houston, and Pryor
Streets, was completed the city's first skyscraper. It stands
seventeen stories above Peachtree on a foundation of solid
granite, a part of the unusual rock formation that finds its
fullest expression in Stone Mountain. It still remains one of
Peachtree's tallest buildings and continues to be a show place.
Just last summer a complete overhaul of the Candler Building
was begun, including air-conditioning throughout and other
modern improvements.

When the Methodist leaders of Atlanta felt the need for a
great downtown church, it was Mr. Candler who reached
into his pocket and contributed about $200,000 of the $300,-
000 to build the Wesley Memorial Church at the corner of
Ivy Street and Auburn Avenue.

There has been no effort here to catalogue all the benefac-
tions and charities of Asa G. Candler. It is doubtful if all of

166 PEACHTREE PARADE

them are known. But it should be clear by now that the
country boy who came to Atlanta from Villa Rica, Georgia,
in 1873 in a homemade suit and with $1.75 in his pockets
made good, as the saying goes, "in a big way," and his career
probably had more impact on the city of his adoption than
that of any other one citizen, past or present.

The phenomenal growth of Coca-Cola gave Atlanta just
the kind of impetus it needed. Shortly after the turn of the
century the city still had its future to make, and the fact
that a lot of roads rail and dirt crossed within its bound-
aries wasn't enough. It needed something like the shot in
the arm provided by Coca-Cola to overcome post-Civil- War
inertia and send it on its way.

Mr. Candler's great financial success inspired others, and
those who had hitched their wagons to his star rode a high
tide of prosperity.

Asa G. Candler was a successful druggist when Coca-Cola
crossed his path. Even without ever having become involved
with "C" hyphen "C" he would have been a successful busi-
nessman. He had the touch. He also had the daring.

At the age of thirty-eight and with a growing family to
support, he risked everything he had to back his belief that he
could make a popular success of a soft drink that had origi-
nally been thought of as a headache remedy and which hadn't
been received too enthusiastically by early customers.

But you don't have to be right like this but once to hit the
jackpot.

Although Mr. Candler had made millions of dollars out of
Coca-Cola through the years, it seems significant to note that
when ownership of the company changed hands in 1919 he
owned only seven shares of stock. He had given it all to his
children.

The great financier has been quoted as having said that

DELICIOUS AND REFRESHING 167

he never went into any business transaction just for the sake
of making money. It was, as he put it, for "adventure or
service." From the record it would appear that he had adven-
ture aplenty, and the evidence of his service is to be seen on
every hand as one strolls along Peachtree.

It has seemed odd to students of the life of Mr. Candler
and the history of the Coca-Cola company that he did not
tie up the bottling end of the business after it had been
demonstrated that the drink could be bottled successfully
and sold elsewhere than at soda fountains.

But this seems to bear out his statement that he wasn't
interested in making money just for the sake of making it.
His challenge had been in marketing the syrup, and he felt
that if he supplied the "magic mixture" that made the drinks
that were put in the bottles, his sales would be increased and
everybody would prosper.

When the Coca-Cola company was bought in 1919 by a
group of businessmen headed by Ernest Woodruff it re-
sponded sensationally to tihe new impetus that was provided.
The capital stock was increased and put on public sale and
is now owned by thousands of stockholders all over the
country and is worth more millions of dollars than the imagi-
nation can grasp.

Since 1923 the active leadership of the Coca-Cola company
has been furnished by Robert W. Woodruff, and his success
in advancing its worth has stamped him as one of the nation's
outstanding business leaders.

Asa Candler's last years were not happy ones. With the
death of his wife in 1919 the fire seemed to go out. He be-
came ill in mind and body and was preoccupied with a feel-
ing of not being useful. Even a great public demonstration
in 1922, when he was chosen by a committee of prominent

168 PEACHTREE PARADE

citizens as "Atlanta's First Citizen" did not release him from
his lethargy. The fact that he was the only man considered
by the committee for this distinction should have brightened
his outlook, but it didn't.

It was during this period that he met and became inter-
ested in Mrs. Onezima de Bouchelle, of New Orleans. They
were thrown together at a big D.A.R. convention in Atlanta,
and after she returned to New Orleans, Mr. Candler carried
on a spirited correspondence with the attractive widow. The
upshot of this contact was that he was named defendant in
a breach-of -promise suit that was heard in the U.S. District
Court in Atlanta, and his letters were made a part of the
testimony.

(Newspaper reporters covering the trial were the unwit-
ting cause of making Mr. Candler appear somewhat ridicu-
lous because what he had written by way of salutation as
"Sweet One" they read as "Sweet Urns" on account of the
aging capitalist's faulty penmanship. )

The breach-of-promise suit was not sustained, and a ver-
dict was rendered in favor of the defendant.

In his seventy-fifth year Mr. Candler entered the Emory
University hospital that had been made possible largely
through his benefactions and remained there until his death
on March 12, 1929. During his long illness he was un-
conscious most of the time and unable to recognize friends
or members of his family.

And thus the curtain went down on the career of the man
who perhaps did more to spark the growth and progress of
Peachtree than any other individual. That the last years of
his life were unhappy tends to support a statement he had
made earlier that wealth does not make a man successful.

"That's the last thing in the world that counts/* he had

DELICIOUS AND REFRESHING 169

said. "Happiness is the main thing, and money does not
bring it/*

The Candlers in Atlanta are numerous. It has been said
that if a person were to stand atop the Candler Building and
throw a handful of birdshot into Peachtree Street the chances
are that at least one Candler would be hit. I wouldn't know
about that.

But Asa G. Candler was a brother of Bishop Warren A.
Candler, one of America's most distinguished Methodist
clergymen for many years, and Judge John S. Candler, a
luminary of the Georgia bar until his death.

It was through devotion to his brother Warren that Asa
Candler focused the attention of his philanthropy so in-
tensely on Emory University, a Methodist-supported institu-
tion. Bishop Candler was the first chancellor of the univer-
sity and performed Herculean services in bringing it into
being.

The Bishop was a power in the Methodist church with a
personality that was as rugged as his faith. He was a great
pulpit orator and a writer of exceptional force. For many
years he contributed a weekly article to The Atlanta Journals
Sunday magazine, for which he received a modest fee, and
it was traditional that on Monday mornings he could be seen
entering the old Journal building to collect his pay from the
cashier.

On his seventy-fifth birthday I wrote a very flowery piece
about the occasion and really went at it full throttle. When I
saw the Bishop a few days later on Peachtree, he thanked me
for the eulogy and added, *1 just wish I had said some of
those wise things you said I said/'

The Bishop enjoyed telling of an occurrence in Herndon's
barbershop, a Peachtree tonsorial establishment catering to

170 PEACHTREE PARADE

white trade but staffed by Negro barbers. He had gone there
for a haircut, and the barber addressed him as "General" as
he took his seat in the chair.

"I'm not a general," the Bishop explained.

"Well, 'sense me, Colonel/' the barber replied.

"But I m not a colonel"

"I beg your pardon, Captain."

"But I'm not a captain," the Bishop expostulated.

"Well, what is you?" the barber inquired.

"I'm a bishop," the churchman answered.

The barber took a few snips at his hair with the shears be-
fore commenting, "Well, suh, the minute I laid eyes on you
I didn't know what you wuz, but whatever it wuz, I knowed
you wuz the head of it"

At a session of the North Georgia Methodist Conference a
short time before his final illness Bishop Candler was called
on for an informal address.

"Considering my age and general condition of decrepi-
tude," he said, "I am happy to inform you brethren that I
can jump a fence now as well as I ever could."

His hearers, noting the Bishop's short, pudgy, nonathletic
figure, howled.

Asa G. Candler was the father of five children: Asa G., Jr.,
Charles Howard, Walter T., William, and Lucy. Being the
offspring of a father so conspicuously wealthy and prominent,
they lived in the fierce, and sometimes harsh, glare of public
attention.

Asa, Jr., who died several years ago, attracted attention as
a young man by owning a fast racing car called "The Merry
Widow" that burned during a race meet on the old Hapeville
track, now the site of the Atlanta Airport. He later made
headlines when he bought a complete zoo and installed it in

DELICIOUS AND REFRESHING 171

the front yard of his residence on Briarcliff Road (it Is now
an institution for the care and cure of alcoholics ) .

I was assigned to cover the unloading of the zoo the morn-
ing it arrived by rail at the Emory University station, and as
tigers, elephants, monkeys, and whatnot were making their
appearance Asa's brother, Walter, remarked, "Buddy, I be-
lieve this is the biggest fool thing you've done yet/'

Whether Walter Candler's estimate was correct is not to
be evaluated here, but in time the menagerie palled on its
owner, prowling monkeys alarmed some of the women in the
neighborhood, and the whole shebang was eventually do-
nated to the City of Atlanta for inclusion in the Grant Park
zoo. (As a sentimental touch, two of the elephants were
named "Coca" and "Cola")

A few years before his death Asa, Jr., became involved in a
court case as the result of a fire that destroyed a laundry that
was one of his properties. It was argued that although the
laundry advertised that all articles entrusted to its care were
insured, there was only a $1,000 policy to cover all possible
losses. The jury found for the defendant.

In his twenty-five-room home on Briarcliff Road Asa, Jr.,
installed one of the finest pipe organs in the country, and
during a period in which he was fascinated by magic, he
bought thousands of dollars worth of magical paraphernalia
with which he enjoyed entertaining and mystifying his
friends.

He was a generous supporter of the First Methodist
Church in his later years and was a regular communicant.

During the time Asa, Jr., had his private zoo a Peachtree
journalist and a well-known veterinarian were enjoying a
few potent libations when the latter received word that
Jimmy Walker, Asa's prize Bengal tiger, was suffering from
a colossal digestive misery and needed immediate attention.

The veterinarian and his literary friend hastened to the

172 PEACHTREE PAKADE

Candler estate, and in his currently courageous condition
the vet prescribed an enema for the suffering beast.

"But who will administer it," Asa's zoo keeper wanted to
know.

"Never you mind about that," the veterinarian replied.
"My friend here [indicating the journalist who was well over
six feet] wiU hold him while I give him the business."

Fortunately, cooler heads prevailed, and thus tragedy was
averted.

William Candler, with funds inherited from his father,
built Atlanta's Biltmore Hotel and, first and last, is reported
to have put about $6,000,000 into the project. The Biltmore
opening was one of the most impressive events in the history
of Peachtree (West Peachtree, that is ) , and the establishment
added considerable tone to the transient life of the city.

William had quite a struggle with the BHtmore's finances,
and it was not until after his tragic death in an automobile
accident in south Georgia (his car hit a meandering hog)
that the hotel, under the general management of his widow,
became a highly profitable operation with an assist from
World War II.

Walter Candler has long been interested in harness racing,
and his Lullwater estate has been the training ground for
some of the fleetest horses on the tracks. He once had his
private training track near the entrance to Emory University,
and passers-by were fascinated by the sleek animals going
through their paces.

Walter was brought into the DeKalb County Superior
Court to answer a suit for damages brought against him by
Mrs. Clyde K. Byfield as the aftermath of a European trip.
Mrs. Byfield accused him of misconduct and personal injury
while aboard the S.S. Berengaria. After a sensational trial in

DELICIOUS AND REFRESHING 173

which shocking accusations were made, the jury found for
the defendant.

Charles Howard Candler, following in the footsteps of his
father, has been one of the most generous supporters of
Emory University and has given millions of dollars to the
institution that grew from the seeds planted by Coca-Cola.
He was at one time president of the Coca-Cola company and
is one of the few men ever entrusted with the "'magic
formula."

Howard, as he is known to his friends, has served with
distinction as chairman of the board of trustees of Emory
and has been a tireless and effective worker in behalf of the
institution. He has also been for years closely identified with
the business and civic life of Atlanta.

Miss Lucy Candler was married to Henry Heinz, one of
Atlanta's most successful businessmen at the time he was
murdered in his home on Ponce de Leon Avenue. That tragic
evening almost caused the death of Dr. Bryant K. Vann, a
prominent Atlanta dentist, who had been married to Mrs.
Heinz's daughter by a previous marriage.

In the moment of emergency Mrs. Heinz called Dr. Vann,
who lived nearby, and besought him to hurry to her hus-
band's assistance. Grabbing up his .45-caliber service re-
volver as he ran from his house, Dr. Vann was on the grounds
of the Heinz home in a matter of minutes. He saw shadowy
figures near the house and opened fire, thinking them to be
the persons who had attacked Mr. Heinz.

It developed, however, that the persons seen by Dr. Vann
were police, and they in turn opened fire on the dentist,
wounding him grievously. Subsequent investigation revealed
that Mr. Heinz had been slain by a Negro prowler, who was
tried and convicted of the crime.

174 PEACHTREE PARADE

Several years ago Mrs. Heinz was married to Enrico Leide,
an accomplished orchestra conductor who had come to
Peachtree during the 1920's to become the musical director
of the Paramount Theater at a time when pit orchestras in
the de luxe motion-picture palaces were riding a high tide of
popularity.

Mr. and Mrs. Leide now divide their time between Atlanta
and New York with frequent trips to Europe interspersed.

Thus it may be seen that the second generation of Candlers
in Atlanta have played an effective and colorful part in the
life of Peachtree. They have all been generous with their
money in supporting worth-while activities and in promoting
the progress of the city in which their father found the key
to unbelievable riches.

If in previous references the statement that "the jury found
for the def endant" may have become somewhat monotonous,
it may at least help in making clearer a remark often repeated
in legal circles, "Nobody ever got rich suing a Candler."

Gone with the Wind

I'VE ALWAYS THOUGHT OF MARGABET MITCHELL AS "THE

little girl who wrote the big book/' She was little, being of
less than average height, and she did write a big book. It ran
1,037 pages. It also was one of the most widely circulated
books in the history of American letters, having passed the
8,000,000 mark at the last tally I saw.

When I first got to know her in 1922, after she joined the
staff of The Atlanta Journals Sunday magazine, neither I,
nor anyone else, could have predicted that she would write
the great American novel that Gone with the Wind turned
out to be.

As a magazine staffer she was affable and attractive. She
enjoyed hanging around with the city-side fellows in off

175

176 PEACHTKEE PABADE

hours listening to the chaff that reporters bandy about after
the paper has been put to bed and the pressure is off.

This was an era when the flapper was in her heyday, and
Dorothy Parker's quips were tossed around as the last word
in sophistication. As a matter of fact, Peggy Mitchell had
something of the Dorothy Parker quality about her at that
time. She was fast on the uptake in exchanges of repartee
and enjoyed a risque story if it possessed sufficient cleverness
to justify its telling.

It was she who nicknamed Mr. Boone Crawford's restau-
rant on the ground floor of the old Journal building "The
Roachery," and I recall trying to use this terminology once
in a parody on The Rosary, but it didn't come off. She was,
however, amused by the effort.

Although everyone who was on The Journal at the time
Peggy worked for the Mag has claimed to have been among
her closest and dearest friends, I can't honestly make such a
statement. Our relationship was at all times cordial but
never what could have been called chummy.

She was inclined more toward those members of the staff
who were considered "literary/* I didn't fall into that cate-
gory. I was soaking up a lot of Peachtree Street at the time
and had places to go and things to do that by the wildest
stretch of the imagination couldn't have been considered of
a literary nature.

The stuff she wrote for the magazine was bright and read-
able if not exactly indicative of the store of genius she un-
covered in Gone with the Wind. Angus Perkerson gave her
the types of assignments that best fitted her style and interest,
and she brought him back stories that reflected good work-
manship and a considerable flair for telling a good yarn well.

I saw Peggy from time to time after she left The Journal
in 1926 and had been married to John Marsh, a former
Atlanta Georgian and Journal reporter who had switched

Gone with the Wind 177

over to the advertising and public-relations department of
the Georgia Power Company. I heard vaguely and in round-
about ways that she was writing a book, but it wasn't until
sometime in 1935 that I heard anything definite.

I was in Athens, Georgia, for some reason or other and
struck up a conversation with Lucien Harris, of the Mac-
millan Company, at the archway leading to the campus of
the University of Georgia.

"I think Peggy Mitchell has written a fine book," he told
me, '"because my company has appropriated five thousand
dollars for an advertising campaign, and when they put that
much on the line to promote a new book, you may be sure
they are convinced they have something special/*

How right Mr. Harris, a grandson of Joel Chandler Harris,
who wrote the Uncle Remus stories, was!

Gone with the Wind was published in July, 1936. Before
Christmas of that year it had sold a million copies, and the
author had been presented with the milMontiht copy as a
souvenir.

Truth to tell, no one was more amazed at the sensational
success of Gone with the Wind than the author herself. After
she had finally been persuaded by Harold Latham to allow
Macmillan to publish her book, Peggy confided to friends
that she hoped it would sell at least five thousand copies.
Among other things, she thought libraries might like to stock
it as a historical document presenting an authentic picture
of life in the South during and immediately after the Civil
War.

Peggy hadn't written the book to sell in the first place. She
had been writing on it for several years at odd times, princi-
pally for her own entertainment and because she had been
reared in a household steeped in Confederate lore and found
pleasure in weaving a set of characters in and out among the
historical facts with which she was so familiar.

178 PEACHTREE PABADE

To illustrate the haphazard manner in which Gone with
the Wind was constructed, it may be recalled that she wrote
the last chapter first and there was no first chapter at all
when Mr. Latham struggled aboard a train under the burden
of seventy big envelopes of manuscript that had been tucked
away on the top shelf of Peggy's clothes closet.

It took considerable persuasion to get Peggy to part with
her precious manuscript. I do not know just what arguments
Mr. Latham used, but I am sure the young author wasn't
swayed by the prospect of acquiring riches. As you will
note later, she was not interested in money or fame either,
for that matter.

Mr. Latham had been introduced to Peggy by Medora
Field Perkerson, wife of The Journal's Sunday magazine
editor, who had long been one of the young writer's closest
friends. It is likely that Mrs. Perkerson had more to do with
selling Peggy on the idea of offering her book for publica-
tion than anyone else.

Gone with the Wind hit the reading public with the force
of a hydrogen bomb. The publishers announced that all
printed copies were sold the day after publication, and the
presses were set to humming again to supply the almost
hysterical demand.

On July S, 1936, Miss Mitchell gave her first and last radio
interview. She and Mrs. Perkerson made an appearance over
WSB, The Journals radio station, and discussed the book,
how it came to be written, and its message: a story of sur-
vival, about the effect of the Civil War on a set of characters
who lived in Atlanta at the time.

Soon after this interview and with the book sweeping the
country it occurred to Major Cohen and John A. Brice, a
top official of The Journal, that even greater stimulus would
be given if Peggy were interviewed over a coast-to-coast
NBC network. Major Cohen and Mr. Brice approached top

Gone with the Wind 179

officials of NBC about it. They agreed that with public
interest at such a high pitch it would be a good thing to do.

I was news editor of WSB at the time and doing daily
broadcasts, so the Major and Mr. Brice asked me if I would
do an interview with Peggy over NBC. I said I would be
delighted.

There was just one hitch Miss Mitchell wouldn't be inter-
viewed, and that was that. She had her own positive ethical
approach to the sale and promotion of Gone with the Wind.
She had written the book and that was enough. As I recall,
she did appear briefly on radio to acknowledge receipt of a
Pulitzer Prize but nothing more.

It wasn't long after Gone with the Wind got rolling that its
author learned how brutally kind the public can be to one
who has earned its favor. This modest, unostentatious, self-
contained young woman found her readers only too eager to
share her life. They wished to intrude on her privacy, and
she would have none of it.

She refused to go along with the tide. She was going to
live her own life as best she could by herself and with her
husband and her own chosen friends.

When The Book first came out Peggy obligingly auto-
graphed copies for any and all who wanted her to write her
name on the fly leaf. It wasn't long, however, before she
realized that at the rate The Book was selling and as the
volume of requests for autographs increased, she could easily
spend the remainder of her life writing her name in books.
So she quit.

I shall never forget the feeling of chagrin I had when she
refused to autograph my copy of Gone with the Wind. I was
at a party of some kind in the Atlanta Athletic Club, and she
was the guest of honor. I had never before asked anyone for
an autograph, but I had my book with me and thought it

180 PEACHTREE PARADE

would be nice to have her inscribe some little message. After
all, we had worked on the same paper, hadn't we?

But when I produced my book and asked her to sign it,
she said she had decided not to autograph any more books
and that much as she regretted it she couldn't make any
exceptions. Was I steamed!

Looking back, however, I realize that she had taken a wise
stand, and in later years we laughed about how ingloriously
I flopped the one and only time I went autograph hunting.

She did, though, develop a method of short-circuiting her
resolution not to autograph books. True, she wouldn't in-
scribe anything in the book but later she would write notes
to favored persons who had requested autographs, and if
they wanted, they could glue them in the place where an
autograph would normally be.

In my case, she waited until the Phi Beta Kappa chapter
at Emory University honored me with an honorary member-
ship and then wrote me a graceful little note of congratula-
tion that now reposes in my treasured copy of Gone with the
Wind.

Q. How did Margaret Mitchell react to becoming a celeb-
rity?

A. She didn't like it. She did not wish to relinquish her
private life and as far as possible, didn't.

Q. How did financial success affect her?

A. Not at all. She wasn't interested in money. Her husband
earned a good salary as head of the advertising and public-
relations departments of the Georgia Power Company, and
they lived on that. About the only concession she made to
her added income was the purchase of a fur coat that wasn't
of the most expensive type.

Q. Why didn't she write another book?

A. For one thing, you can't go any higher than the top.

Gone with the Wind 181

Anything Margaret Mitchell might have written subsequent
to Gone with the Wind would have been anticlimactic. It
undoubtedly would have suffered by comparison with her
first effort.

Q. Did she enjoy writing?

A. In a newspaper interview with Dudley Glass shortly
before Gone with the Wind was published, she said, "One
book is enough. I hate writing. I detest writing. It is a slave
grind. Ill never write another book as long as I live."

Q. How long did it take her to do the research for Gone
with the Wind?

A. She didn't do any research. It wasn't necessary. As she
said, "I didn't sit up all night doing research because I had
the story in my mind. Why not? I was raised on it. When
other children were learning to recite The Wreck of the
Hesperus/ I was learning Father Ryan's 'Sword of Lee' and
hearing all about General Johnston's campaign and why the
Yankees captured Atlanta."

Q. Weren't any of the facts in her book questioned?

A. Yes. The editors of Macmillan referred several ques-
tions of fact to her, and on investigation it invariably turned
out that she was correct. You might say she did such research
as was done after the book was written.

Q. Was there such a place as Tara, the ancestral home of
the OUaras?

A. No. It must have been located somewhere near Jones-
boro, but Scarlett's Tara was purely fictional. As Peggy said,
"I made Tara up." In fact, she went to considerable pains to
be sure that it couldn't be identified as any particular place.

Q. Did Margaret Mitchell look forward as a young girl to
being a writer?

A. No. She wanted to be a doctor.

Q. Has the home in which Margaret Mitchell was reared
been preserved as a memorial?

182 PEACBTKEE PABADE

A. No. The home on Peachtree was razed several years
ago. There is, however, a "Margaret Mitchell Room' 7 in the
Atlanta Public Library, which by all means should be visited
by those interested in the lore of Gone with the Wind.

Gone with the Wind was still in proof form when Katharine
Brown, of the David O Selznick organization, spotted it as
a motion-picture possibility. She immediately got in touch
with her boss and suggested that he purchase the film rights.

Mr. Selznick took her advice. He bought the film rights to
Gone with the Wind for $50,000 the greatest bargain in the
history of the motion-picture business. (I have heard from
time to time that Mr. Selznick and his associates later gave
Peggy an additional $50,000, and I believe this to be true. )

Acting with showmanly acumen, Mr. Selznick hadn't
owned the rights to GWTW very long before the search for
an actress to play Scarlett OTrlara was launched. Mr. Selz-
nick intimated that he would prefer a competent but more
or less unknown actress for the role. After all, he wanted to
bring Scarlett to life on the screen rather than glorify some
actress whose strong personality might interfere.

First one actress and then another was mentioned in con-
nection with the part. For a time it seemed that Miriam Hop-
kins, a Savannah, Georgia, girl, might be chosen. Then it
seemed that Tallulah Bankhead, the pride of Alabanf, had
the inside track. Katharine Hepburn was for a time seriously
considered.

But when the final choice was made, the nod went to
Vivien Leigh, a not-too-well-known English actress, who
had appeared briefly but effectively in several successful
movies.

As it turned out, Mr. Selznick could not have made a
happier choice.

Gone with the Wind 183

As a combination o fire and ice Vivien Leigh became
Scarlett O'Hara and won an Oscar for her pains.

As for Rhett Butler well, there was nobody but Clark
Gable for the role, and he did the best job of his illustrious
career as the swashbuckling blockade-runner who turned out
to be a pretty good guy after all. Mr. Gable played Rhett so
well that many movie fans are under the impression that he
joined Miss Leigh in the Oscar parade. The award for the
best performance by an actor that year, however, went to
Robert Donat for his superb role in Goodbye Mr. Chips. Yet,
great as Mr. Donat was, I think Mr. Gable was robbed.

Other casting that aroused both enthusiasm and contro-
versy included Leslie Howard as Ashley Wilkes, Olivia
de Havilland as Melanie, Ona Munson as Belle Watling, and
Hattie McDaniel as "Mammy .**

When it was announced officially that Atlanta had been
chosen for the world premiere of Gone with the Wind, there
was dancing in Peachtree Street. This would be the biggest
and most colorful motion-picture premiere the world had
ever seen. After all, it was made from the most successful
book of its generation, wasn't it?

Arrangements had been made by Mr. Selznick for Metro-
Goldwyn-Mayer to distribute Gone with the Wind. Thus,
Loew's Grand the M-G-M house in Atlanta was chosen as
the site for the premiere. Movie stars would be brought in.
Celebrities of all sorts would be imported. The Junior League
would give a ball to add tone to the event. Nothing would be
left undone that should be done.

And so it was that on the night of December 15, 1939,
Peachtree Street was host to the world premiere that not
only came up to but exceeded all expectations. Movie stars
were all over the place. Celebrities were so thick that they
were getting autographs from each other. The house had long

184 PEACHTREE PABABE

been sold out, and late-comers Bad no luck getting tickets.
(Governor James M. Cox, the former governor of Ohio who
was the Democratic Party's presidential candidate in 1920
with Franklin D. Roosevelt as his running mate, had bought
The Atlanta Journal, The Atlanta Georgian, and WSB a
couple of days before, and it was jokingly remarked that he
had bought two newspaper properties in order to be certain
of getting tickets to the premiere.}

Julian V. Boehm, one of Atlanta's best-known and most-
loved citizens, was posted at the public-address system in
front of Loew's Grand to introduce the stars to the milling
throng. There were Clark Gable and Carole Lombard, who
had been married only a few months; Vivien Leigh and
Laurence Olivier, who were soon to be married; Olivia de
Havilland, Ona Munson, Evelyn Keyes (an Atlanta girl who
played one of the young belles in the Tara sequence), Ann
Rutherford, David O. Selznick, Claudette Colbert, who was
not in the picture but came along, according to rumor, to
look up an old boy friend she had met on the boat on which
she first came to the United States from France; and more
and more and on and on.

But amidst all the glitter and glamour the center of attrac-
tion was the little girl who had written the big book. Here
was her story come to life. Here was her dream revealed for
all to see. Here were the great personages of the motion-
picture industry, leaders of business and finance, the glitter-
ing figures of society come to lay their tokens of apprecia-
tion and respect at her feet. Here were converged the
outstanding talents of a great entertainment medium to give
width and breadth and depth to the story she had made up
as she thought of her beloved Atlanta and the Civil War and
the wonderful people who rode out the storm of poverty
and degradation, who refused to yield their pride and their
self-respect to an invader with his iron boot on their necks.

Gone with the Wind 185

The flag of the Confederacy flew high that night over
Peachtree. And Peggy Mitchell was misty-eyed as a scream-
ing, enthusiastic audience rose to its feet in tumultuous
tribute to a great story superbly told.

This was, undoubtedly, the happiest night of her life. And
as she stepped from Loew's Grand onto the friendly pave-
ment of Peachtree, she little dreamed that in less than ten
years on this same street, although a few miles to the north,
she had a rendezvous with death.

Gone with the Wind is the greatest motion picture ever
made. It has been seen and appreciated by more people than
any other entertainment ever offered to the public. It has
taken in something like $40,000,000 in the sixteen years it
has been on exhibition. It has been brought back for reruns
almost every year since 1939 and continues to play to packed
houses. Any time M-G-M feels the need of a fresh million
dollars the prints of Gone with the Wind are dusted off and
sent out on the circuit again.

There is no reason why GWTW should not be entertain-
ing and thrilling audiences for years. It is a period picture,
and thus the costumes and appointments will never get out
of date.

Furthermore, it tells the ever-fascinating story of survival,
of man's great courage in the face of overwhelming odds, the
everlasting triumph of men and women over adversity.

On the anniversary of the world premiere of Gone with the
Wind the second world premiere was held in Loew's Grand
Theater. Just how often a thing can be done the first time
may be a subject for debate, but here it was December, 1940,
and the second world premiere of GWTW was coming up.

Bill Coleman and his M-G-M publicity crew had moved in
from Dallas to beat the drums again. Bill had handled the

186 PEACHTREE PARADE

spectacular publicity job for the -first premiere, and he was
primed for the second. He was bringing in Vivien Leigh and
Laurence Olivier, who by now were man and wife, and
Alfred Hitchcock, the distinguished director of suspense
movies, to add color and interest. (Mr. Hitchcock, by the
way, never did quite understand what he was doing as a
member of the party coming to Atlanta for a Gone with the
Wind premiere inasmuch as he had had nothing to do with
any phase of the picture. His best guess was that there were
a couple of open seats on the plane leaving the Coast, and he
went along to fill them no problem for Hitchy. )

Mr. Coleman hit on the idea of chartering an airplane and
sending representatives of the Peachtree press to Nashville,
Tennessee, to welcome the movie personalities coming in
from Hollywood and escort them on in to Atlanta.

I was elected to represent The Journal, and Miss Deezy
Scott, an attractive member of The Atlanta Constitution
staff, was chosen as the representative of the morning press.
We took off in very questionable weather from the Atlanta
Airport with Charlie Dolson, now operations manager for
the Delta-C. & S. airline, at the controls of a hardy DC-3.
From the time we left Atlanta until we touched down at the
Nashville airport, no land was visible. As Mr. Dolson suc-
cinctly said, "It was like flying through a bale of cotton/'

In Nashville by the grace of God and some expert flying on
the part of Mr. Dolson, Miss Scott and I inquired at the desk
of the Hermitage Hotel about the accommodations for Scott
and Rogers, of the Atlanta press, arranged for by Mr. Cole-
man. Without looking up and in that abstract manner so
frequently characteristic of hotel room clerks, the man be-
hind the desk fumbled with a mass of papers and then
announced brightly, "Everything's fine. We have a nice suite
for you fellows on the seventh floor/'

I looked at Miss Scott and Miss Scott looked at me. The

Gone with the Wind 187

room clerk, by now having partially aroused from his pre-
occupation, looked at us both. This called for a small confer-
ence. Miss Scott was the first to break the ice.

"Let's take it," she suggested after the clerk had explained
that there was a large living room between the two bed-
rooms. "I always prefer a suite."

"It's a deal," I agreed, "provided I can tell my wife about
it first/'

And that's the way it was. There was only one small com-
plication. Some woman who called Deezy appeared slightly
upset when I answered the phone.

The party from the west coast was having a tough time of
it. The weather was terrible, and they were up and down like
a yo-yo all the way across the country. The weather in Nash-
ville was little better, and when our Hollywoodites finally
made it to the Tennessee capital, there was some doubt about
the feasibility of proceeding to Atlanta.

Mr. Dolson, however, figured that he could make it, and if
we took off at once, we would have just about enough time
to make the premiere if all went well. He may have been
correct in his hypothesis, but we were not allowed to find out
because everything broke all wrong.

It looked, though, for a time that we might make it, but
when we were about fifteen minutes out of Atlanta, the air-
port fogged in, and Mr. Dolson began casting about for some-
where to light. Before giving up, though, he was determined
to try for a landing in Atlanta. He made a couple of passes
at the airport but was waved away by the control tower, and
we ultimately came to rest in Augusta, Georgia, several hun-
dred miles away from the place where they were holding the
second world premiere of Gone with the Wind.

When Peggy Mitchell learned that we were having a hard
time getting into Atlanta, she became greatly agitated and
joined Katharine Brown, the gal who dug GWTW out of the

188 PEACHTREE PARADE

Macmillan proofs for Selznick, at a telephone in the office of
the manager of Loew's Grand to keep track of our progress.

When we finally landed in Augusta, I talked with her on
the phone, and she was not particularly concerned about the
premiere being fouled up but was extravagant in expressing
her thankfulness that all hands were safe.

It was during the flight from Atlanta to Augusta that a
spirited argument arose between Mr. Olivier (later to be-
come Sir Laurence) and Mr. Hitchcock concerning what
would happen if a warm bottle of champagne should be
opened. The question came up because the occupants of the
aimless airplane were very edgy, and it was thought that a
touch of alcohol might have a soothing effect.

The only drinkable that could be located was a bottle of
champagne owned by a member of the Hollywood group.
The wine, however, had not been iced, and that's what
prompted the argument. The speculation went like this: If a
warm bottle of champagne is opened does the bubbly go
whooshing out, leaving an empty container, or does it merely
mean that tepid champagne is left in the bottle to be drunk?

Nobody seemed to know for sure, and we never did find
out. The bottle was left unopened.

The second world premiere party arrived in Atlanta the
day following, and Miss Leigh, Mr. Olivier, and Mr. Hitch-
cock were entertained at a lavish series of functions arranged
by Mr. Coleman, et at., so the trip was not a complete bust.

When December 15, 1941, came around we were all set
for the third world premiere of GWTW, but it seems that
even in the movies you can't do a thing for the first time
more than twice.

For the first time in the history of motion-picture exhibi-
tion, the distributor asked for and got 70 per cent of the
take for Gone with the Wind, and on account of the great

Gone with the Wind 189

throngs that flocked to see it all over the United States and
England those first years, it was profitable for all concerned.
It ran for more than a year in one London theater.

Gone with the Wind has a running time of three hours
and twenty minutes with an intermission in the middle. It
cost some $6,000,000 to make, and the return on the invest-
ment has made it one of the most profitable ventures in Holly-
wood history.

With the film rights to the picture having been sold for
$50,000 when the book was still in proof form, many people
who are concerned with such things have often speculated
on how much they would have brought had Peggy waited a
year or so after publication to make a deal. A most conserva-
tive estimate is that she could have realized at least $1,-
000,000 with a percentage of the profits. But, as stated be-
fore, she was not interested in money.

For example, Mr. Selznick offered Peggy an extravagant
fee to come to Hollywood and sit in as a "technical adviser"
for the film. She declined with thanks but was overjoyed
when her friends Wilbur Kurtz and Susan Myrick were en-
gaged to serve as technical adviser and voice coach, respec-
tively.

For several months an important Film Row executive had
authorization from his home studio to offer Peggy Mitchell
$100,000 for the right to make a sequel to Gone with the
Wind. The studio didn't want her to do a thing but accept
the money. The story would be written by the studio, the
screenplay would be written by the studio, and all Miss
Mitchell would be called on to do was to grant permission.
She wasn't interested.

Mr. Selznick urged Peggy to accept the Oscar he received
as a result of GWTW being voted the best motion picture of
1939. She declined.

Peggy also would have nothing to do with casting the

190 PEACHTREE PARADE

picture. At no time did she express a preference for any actor
or actress to play a role in the film version of her book. She
had written a book; she was not a producer of motion
pictures.

On the evening of August 11, 1949, Peggy and her hus-
band, John Marsh, were in their apartment on Piedmont
Avenue. It had been stiflingly hot all day, and Peggy hadn't
been feeling well. After dinner, John suggested that they go
to the Peachtree Art Theater to see a movie called A Canter-
bury Tale,

"The theater is air-conditioned," he said, "and it will at
least help us beat the heat."

Peggy thought it was a good idea, so they got in their car,
drove south on Piedmont Avenue to Fourteenth Street, then
turned right and went on across Peachtree Street, parking
their vehicle near the intersection. They walked south on the
west side of Peachtree until they were almost directly across
from the Peachtree Art Theater and turned left to make the
crossing.

At this same moment a twenty-nine-year-old off-duty taxi-
cab driver named Hugh Dorsey Gravitt (obviously named
for the solicitor general who prosecuted Leo M. Frank) was
proceeding north on Peachtree in a 1948 Ford coach.

As Peggy reached the middle of Peachtree she saw the
Gravitt car bearing down on her, started to go back to the
curb on her side of the street, and in that split second of in-
decision was struck by the approaching motorcar and hurled
to tie pavement. Mr. Marsh, terrified by the turn of events,
sprang to his wife's assistance but it was too late. She had
already received massive head injuries that were to result in
her death five days later in the Grady Memorial Hospital.

Gravitt, arrested on various charges of traffic violation, was
taken in custody. At police headquarters he admitted having

Gone with the Wind 191

had "a few beers/* Subsequent investigation revealed that he
had a record of twenty-four previous traffic violations, princi-
pally for speeding.

Naturally, he didn't know the identity of the person he had
run down, but when he learned that it was Margaret Mit-
chell, he expressed the wish that it had been him in front of
the car instead of the author of Gone with the Wind.

Gravitt was indicted and placed on trial. A jury found him
guilty of involuntary manslaughter, and he was sentenced to
serve from twelve to eighteen months. There was no appeal
from the verdict, and in four months he was freed since,
according to the law, he was eligible for parole after serving
one-third of his sentence.

Shortly before noon on August 16, 1949, Bill Key, The
Atlanta Journals top rewrite man, was idly fiddling with the
keys on his typewriter when Bob Collins, then city editor of
The Journal, called to him.

"Bill," he said, "stand by. I want you to do the Peggy
Mitchell obit."

"Is she dead?" Bill asked.

"No," replied the city editor, **but she's going fast. Frank
Daniel is just outside the sickroom, and hell give you the
flash."

As the hands of the clock on the wall of The Journals city
room were close to registering the noon hour the telephone
on Bill Key's desk rang.

"Yeah," the rewrite man said into the instrument.

"Bill," said a subdued voice at the other end of the line,
"this is Frank Daniel. She died at eleven fifty-nine."

Bill Key turned to his typewriter and for the next twenty-
eight minutes wrote without interruption except to change
copy paper at the end of the pages. He had not expected to
write the story of Margaret Mitchell's death. He thought

192 PEACHTREE PARADE

that possibly Frank Daniel, who had been her close friend
through the years, would be given the assignment. He had
no notes or clippings to guide him, but being one of the
finest rewrite men in the business, he had the story tucked
away in his head. This is what he wrote:

Margaret Mitchell, who wrote the twentieth century's most
popular story, died at 11:59 A.M. Tuesday at Grady hospital.

Death resulted from injuries received when Miss Mitchell was
struck down by a speeding automobile last Thursday night as she
and her husband, John R. Marsh, attempted to cross Peachtree
Street to attend a neighborhood movie.

An automobile, driven by Hugh D. Gravitt, an off-duty taxicab
driver, struck Miss Mitchell with terrific impact and dragged her
unconscious form several feet.

At her bedside when death ended the long struggle were im-
mediate members of her family.

Not once since the accident had Miss Mitchell fully recovered
consciousness, according to hospital attaches, At infrequent
intervals she had murmured vague, incoherent responses to
spoken questions.

But it was apparent that the victim of one of Atlanta's most
tragic traffic accidents had not succeeded in struggling through
to an awareness of the awful thing that had happened to her or
of the shocked suspense with which notables all over the world
awaited outcome of her plight.

The little lady of the big book died fully as tragic a death as
many of the sunnier dramatis personae of her great story the
curly-haired Tarleton twins, for example alive, laughing and
joking one day; broken, and torn and lifeless the next.

That was the way Margaret Mitchell had been, warm and
friendly and chatty a sparkle in her gray-blue eyes as she lis-
tened to an anecdote; a twinkle when she told one.

Many persons found it hard to believe that "Peggy" Mitchell
is dead. Calls began coming in a flurry, then a veritable flood
to The Journal office shortly before and right after noon. They

Gone with the Wind 193

were stunned to wordless silence as the sad word was given out,
"Margaret just died."

To her close friends she was a delightful combination of two
of her most entrancing fiction creatures Scarlett O'Hara and
Melanie Wilkes the gentle sweetness of Melanie, an outstanding
characteristic enlivened at times by the peppery vivacity of
Scarlett.

The bitter truth of the accident which ended the life of the
South's most noted author was spoken a few hours before her
death by her husband who sat at her bedside the "J.RM" to
whom Gone with the Wind was dedicated.

"The accident," he said, "didn't have to happen. If that man
had been driving even a little slower Peggy and I would have
both gotten safely across the street Permitting numerous of-
fenses without taking away the driver's license encourages the
reckless driver."

Margaret Mitchell left behind her a deathless survivor-
her monumental human history of a South which rapidly is be-
coming only a romantic legend. To the world she told that old
storyan amazingly faithful narrative of the Old South, the
true South the South of swords and roses and swansdown fans,
of flowing yellow sashes and chivalry that rivaled the scenes
depicted by Dumas and his gallant Musketeers.

From its first astonishing edition, it was a tender yet stirring
document of gallant love and bloody strife. Its simplicity gave
to the story an impact that moved native Northerners to murmur
against recorded brutalities. And though it was utterly devoid
of rancor or complaint it drove an old Nebraska grandmother to
wipe her spectacles and mutter, 'Them damned Yankees."

Through the pages that Margaret Mitchell penned for the
world she gave that world its first broad panorama of the War
Between the States and the pathos of a broken people during re-
construction. The noted Saturday Evening Post stalwart, George
Horace Lorimer, remarked that he could never get enough of
reading Gone with the Wind.

On hearing the news of the death of Miss Mitchell, Governor
Herman Talmadge immediately ordered the flag over the state

194 PEACmHEE PARADE

capitol lowered to half-staff, there to remain as a signal of deep
mourning until after the funeral.

"I am deeply shocked to hear of the passing of Margaret
Mitchell, Georgia's most noted author," the Governor said in
an official statement of condolence. "This is a tremendous blow
not only to the people of Georgia but to the nation and of foreign
countries where millions enjoyed and received inspiration from
her famous book. The people of Georgia mourn her passing and
we feel a keen loss."

The Governor, commenting on the cause of the noted author's
untimely death, declared that Georgia must take positive steps
to see that persons who operate taxicabs and cars for hire are
qualified and experienced. He promised that he personally
would see that such drivers are qualified.

Death of Miss Mitchell wrote a moving climax to the long
"death watch" at the city hospital. She had been too dangerously
injured to be moved to a private infirmary but at Grady, since
she was first brought in as an emergency patient, a special staff
and special headquarters had been set up around "Room 210"
in which she fought her last battle.

Newspapermen, press service and radio broadcasting repre-
sentatives kept a continuous watch over her condition. The most
trifling change was immediately put on the wires and over
microphones. The nation's most influential newspapers printed
the changing news on front pages.

According to physicians at the bedside the sudden change for
the worse was noted in mid-morning Tuesday. She had spent a
poor night, but Mr. Marsh himself had expressed confidence in
her recovery only a few hours before death.

Telephone calls swamped the switchboard staff at Grady. With
news of the death of the hospital's most famous patient the calls
were doubled, trebled until no more could come through. It
was the same with newspapers and radio stations.

And the reaction to the news was almost of a single pattern.
People simply couldn't realize, they said, that Margaret Mitchell
was deadgone from the very scenes of the place she had made

Gone with the Wind 195

world-famous. But it was true. Margaret Mitchell was gonethe
latest victim in Atlanta's growing list of traffic fatalities.

In consequence of his fine job in doing the death story of
his long-time friend Bill Key won the Associated Press
Managing Editors' award for news writing.

So at one minute before noon on August 16, 1949, the little
girl who wrote the big book passed from the scene. She had
left behind a great legacy: an entire section of the nation
who took pride in what she had done to explain her people
to the remainder of the world; to hold aloft for all to see the
courage and steadfastness of a people who, though beaten
to their knees by adversity, had within their fiber the will to
survive, the will to overcome sickening odds to claim once
more their place in the sun.

And in the family burial plot in Oakland Cemetery sleeps
the little girl who dreamed a dream of lovely maidens and
gay cavaliers caught up in the horror of war and its aftermath
and who, in a blazing burst of genius, spread it on the golden
pages of glory.

The toll of those who had a hand in fashioning Gone with
the Wind has been heavy in the sixteen years since it flashed
with meteorlike brilliance on the motion-picture screens of
the world. Leslie Howard, that fine English actor who por-
trayed the vacillating Ashley Wilkes; Sidney Howard, writer
of the screenplay; Victor Fleming, the inspired director; and
Hattie McDaniel, the beloved Mammy all are gone.

Since the accident that resulted in Peggy Mitchell's death
I have never passed the spot on Peachtree, between Thir-
teenth and Fourteenth Streets, where she was run down, that
I haven't thought of her . . . thought of the time when she
was a guest in my home and because of her short stature had

196 PEACHTREE PABADE

brought along a thick book to put under her feet because
when she sat in a chair they didn't reach the floor . . . thought
of her gay laughter as she would huddle with a group of
reporters in the city room of the old Journal swapping yarns
with the hard-bitten corps of newshounds who ranged the
town in search of news . . , thought of her gazing up into the
eyes of Clark Gable with a look of rapt adoration on her face
as if, to her great surprise, she had suddenly come face to
face with Rhett Butler . . , thought of her enthusiastic partici-
pation in the gang singing and general hilarity of those hours
during the Georgia Press Institutes in Athens, Georgia, when
the serious business of the day was laid aside and fun and
frolic were the order of the night . . . thought of her emerg-
ing from the Atlanta Public Library with great stacks of
books in her arms and nodding her head vigorously in greet-
ing because she couldn't wave her hands . . . thought of her
in Boone Crawford's "Roachery" enjoying the camaraderie
of a cup of coffee with friends of the press . . . thought of her
as she was the last time I saw her gay, smiling, walking
underneath the marquee of Loew's Grand Theater, where
she had experienced her greatest night of triumph as a grate-
ful Southland and an admiring nation came to pay her hom-
age and tribute.

THERE'S A CHANCE THAT YOU MAY SOMETIME WISH TO visrr
Peachtree. If so, I may be able to help. Maybe you'd like to
know some of the things to do and see should you find Atlanta
and Georgia on your itinerary.

Atlanta's first and foremost tourist attraction is the Cyclo-
rama in Grant Park. (Grant Park, incidentally, has nothing
whatever to do with a Yankee soldier named Ulysses S.
Grant. It was named for Colonel Lemuel P. Grant, a gallant
Confederate officer who planned the fortifications for the
defense of Atlanta to withstand General Sherman's rampage.
The fortifications didn't work too well, as you may have read
in your history book, but Colonel Grant survived and in 1882
gave the City of Atlanta a hundred acres of land on which to
establish a municipal park. )

197

198 PEACHTKEE PABADE

The Cyclorama is a gigantic painting (400 feet in circum-
ference, 50 feet high, weighing 18,000 pounds) depicting an
incident in the Battle of Atlanta during the Civil War. Oddly
enough, it was painted about 1866 in Milwaukee, Wisconsin,
by a team of German painters. How's that for a Southern
touch?

Next, you will want to see Stone Mountain, a few miles
northeast of Atlanta. It is the largest exposed granite dome
in America, and some say it is the largest monolith in the
world. I'm not guaranteeing these statistics, and even if true,
they are not the principal reason why Stone Mountain is
important to the visitor.

Its importance lies in the fact that one side of the moun-
tain has a few scratches on it that must suffice, for the time
being, for the breath-taking memorial to the Confederacy
that was planned for the site. You can see some faint tracings
that were to have been monuments to Robert E. Lee, Stone-
wall Jackson, and Jeff Davis, but because of bickering and
discord among members of the Stone Mountain Monumental
Association the work was abandoned with practically nothing
to show for a lot of enthusiasm and flag-waving that accom-
panied the beginning of the project. Gutzon Borglum, the
first sculptor to be engaged, quit in a huff and was succeeded
by Augustus Lukeman, who emulated the "old soldier" and
just faded away.

There is talk from time to time of reviving the project, but
as of now nothing has been done. But we Ye still hoping, and
those of strong faith are sure that eventually a suitable memo-
rial will be completed.

If I were conducting you on a tour of Peachtree and its
environs, I should next take you to the Wren's Nest in the
West End section. It is the former home of Joel Chandler
Harris, author of the famous "Uncle Remus Stories," which

Y'AIX COME 199

has been preserved as a memorial to one of the Souths great-
est literary geniuses.

Then, of course, if any of your folks have lost a fall to
Uncle Sam for some reason or other, we could ride out
McDonough Boulevard and take a look at the United States
Penitentiary that has housed some distinguished guests in its
day, including the late Al Capone, Gerald Chapman, Eugene
V. Debs, Earl Carroll, and other assorted lawbreakers. You'd
be surprised how many people desire a squint at this grim
pile of steel and stone.

On the off chance that you are interested in government,
we could swing back into town where in the space of only a
few city blocks could be found the state capitol of Georgia,
the Atlanta City Hall, and the Fulton County Courthouse
(Atlanta is in Fulton). The buildings are indeed handsome.

And while we're in the neighborhood, we might as well go
to the corner of Marietta and Forsyth Streets and view the
monument to Henry W. Grady that symbolizes the Atlanta
newspaperman who is credited more than any other indivi-
dual Southerner with narrowing the breach between the
North and the South after the Civil War. It was his oratory
that turned the trick.

If you still haven't had enough and enjoy the sight of
seats of higher learning cloaked in all their intellectual
grandeur, we could visit Georgia Tech, where it has been
proved that engineering and football mix extremely well;
Emory University, where it has been demonstrated that it is
not necessary to have a football team at all to develop a great
institution of learning; Agnes Scott, where the womenfolks
sharpen their brains; and Oglethorpe University, where a
dedicated man named Philip Weltner is proving successfully
that learning to live is more important than learning Greek
or Latin, or both.

While we are at Oglethorpe, by the way, we might as well

200 PEACHTREE PARADE

continue north a few miles and observe one of the most
fascinating sights of all-Peachtree Industrial Boulevard.

This last lap of Peachtree before it dead-ends into the
Buford Highway is a study in modern industrial designing
with many new and impressive structures housing portions
of choice American industry. As you ride along you will be
impressed by such names as Boyle-Midway, J. I. Case,
General Electric, Allis-Chalmers, Westinghouse, John Deere,
Massey-Hams, Precision Paint, Auto Vent Shade, Kodak,
and coming to a climax at the vast Buick-Oldsmobile-Pontiac
assembly division of General Motors. This leg of Peachtree
was developed and promoted by a large, amiable man named
Robert M. Holder, who envisioned one of the most impres-
sive industrial boulevards in America and is well on his way
to realization of that dream.

If you have a hankering for cemeteries, we can ride across
town and visit Oakland, the oldest of Atlanta's burying
grounds, where many of the founders of Peachtree have been
laid to rest; then travel several miles in the opposite direction
and visit West View, a newer and more elaborate develop-
ment. There's no use trying to reserve a spot in Oakland for
your final rest because it is filled. I started to say there's
"Standing Room Only," but lef s skip it.

On our way back through town, if you are of the feminine
gender, you most assuredly would want to shop in two of
the South's outstanding department stores Rich's and Davi-
son's. They are among the finest in the nation and stand at
the head of the many other fine stores and specialty shops
that embellish the Peachtree scene.

If by now you haven't exhausted your enthusiasm for sight-
seeing, well take a look at some of the finest residential
districts to be found anywhere in the country. I know you
hear about the beautiful homes in every town you visit, but
the ones in Atlanta are really special.

Y'ALL COME 201

First, we'll ride away from Peachtree on Ponce de Leon
Avenue and duck off on Lullwater, Springdale, and other
thoroughfares in what is known as the Druid Hills section,
which features many exquisite homes. This is the part of
Atlanta that Asa G. Candler and the Adalrs George and
Forrest developed.

After you have your gasps of admiration under control,
we'll come on back to Peachtree, proceed north, turn left at
Peachtree Battle Avenue, then turn right on Habersham
Road, where you will feast your eyes on one of the loveliest
residential streets to be found anywhere, and then, when you
feel that you can't stand any more, well ride up and down
West Pace's Ferry Road and let you see a few lavish estates
and then go on to Tuxedo Park the real tops in residential
wonders.

Now, you may not care too much for this little look-see
at Peachtree and its neighbors that I have outlined, and if
you don't well, that's all right, too. You can team up with
someone else and he (or she) may possibly show you a lot of
things I've overlooked. But I haven't room here to give you
a guidebook tour. I've merely indicated in hurried fashion
some of the things about my town that impress me most.

If you are hungry by now, maybe I can give you a few
tips in the department of gastronomy.

We could drop into Bill Hart's restaurant 'way out Peach-
tree near Buckhead for almost anything you'd like, served
with graciousness and in most pleasant surroundings. In fact,
before Bill leased the place for his Hart's Peachtree restaur-
ant, it had been the residence of James R. Gray, a onetime
owner and editor of The Atlanta Journal.

If Mr. Hart comes to your table, as he most likely will,
he may tell you how a few years ago, after selling his in-
terest in a restaurant at Pershing Point (where Peachtree
and West Peachtree join after going their separate ways for

202 PEACHTBEE PARADE

several miles after leaving Baker Street), he and his lovely
wife, Doris, toured the United States for more than a year
looking for the "perfect place" to establish a restaurant for
"gracious dining/' and how they found it on Peachtree just
three miles farther north than the spot from which they
started.

Should you not mind going a little farther for your din-
ner, we could run out to Harvey Hester's place near Smyrna,
Georgia, called Aunt Fanny's Cabin. Chances are that you'll
be met at the door by Harvey himself, who is as good an ad-
vertisement for his establishment as could be found. At the
last count he weighed about 250 pounds, tableside.

Aunt Fanny's Cabin, incidentally, is an authentic slave
cabin in which Aunt Fanny lived for many years, and until
more or less recently she was on display in person. Her death
was mourned by all.

Harvey, by the way, will undoubtedly tell you about the
time he was a movie actor (he played a part in Td Climb
the Highest Mountain), and if you want to hear firsthand
stories about Jack Dempsey, Susan Hayward, Bob Hope,
or almost any other celebrity you can name, he will be glad
to oblige.

If Mr. Hester takes a shine to you, he may present you
with a membership card in Aunt Fanny's Confederate Club,
whose object is, as announced on the face of the pasteboard,
"Welcoming the Rich Yankee South/'

Also, if you care for fine steaks, wonderful fried chicken,
superb country ham, exciting mountain trout, or Idaho po-
tatoes boiled in resin (they come to the top when they're
done), Harvey is the man to see that you get them. And
should you hear somebody singing, "Save Your Confederate
Money, Boys, the South Will Rise Again," it is likely one of
Aunt Fanny's grandchillun rehearsing for the floor show.

Like French cuisine? Then you'll want to drop into Re-

Y'ALL COME 203

moncfs new place on Peachtree Road near the Brookwood
railway station and tell Ruth or Georges your needs. Or, if
you're downtown, call on M. Emile Blanc at Emile's and
after a parlez vous or two, hell serve the onion soup so you
may sip as you ogle the menu.

Maybe youVe a hankering for a hot pastrami sandwich or
more elaborate victuals with a kosher flavor. In that case,
we'll repair to Forsyth and Luckie Streets, where Mr. Charlie
Lebedin will confront you with a menu about two feet
square and defy you to find anything on it from gefiillte fish
to matzoth balls that isn't delicious. The place is called Leb's
in honor of the owner, as you likely have figured by now.

Or a little farther west on Luckie you may want to visit
with Mr. Ed Negri at Ye Olde Herren's for a platter of hot
Shrimp Arnaud with an authentic New Orleans flavor. You
will also notice that Mr. Negri has listed among the deserts
"World's Second-Best Apple Pie." This is in deference to
Mammy's Shanty, a few miles north on Peachtree, which ad-
vertises "World's Best Apple Pie." (Mammy's Shanty also
features a painting showing General Grant surrendering to
General Lee.)

If you incline toward the Italian cuisine, you ought to try
Little Italy (hosted by Walter Tolleson), Mama Mia's, or,
perhaps, Biuoso's.

There are many other good places up and down Peachtree
and on its tributaries where one may assuage the pangs of
hunger: Ed Venable's (home style), the Miami Buffets (in
the Atlantan Hotel and the Pace's Ferry Towers); the
Frances Virginia; Dale's Cellar underneath the Imperial Ho-
tel; the Biltmore Terrace; the Sportsman; the various Davis
Bros, restaurants; Peacock Alley; the Pig 'n Whistle; the
Rose Bowl; Ship Ahoy; the Piedmont Hotel's Roast Beef
House; the Dinkier Plaza's Town and Country Room; Cross-

204 PEACHTREE PARADE

roads; Cross-Keys; and many other spots, depending on
vour taste and the condition of your pocketbook.

If you crave entertainment during the evening, there are
plenty of motion-picture theaters ( downtown, neighborhood,
and drive-in) and a few night spots where an illegal toddy
may be obtained and where, if the joint hasn't closed by
now, you may see a stripper at work or hear a smutty song.

If you have the family along, it's always safe to take them
to the Paradise Room in the Henry Grady because during its
long life on Peachtree it has never lowered its standards to
the demands of those who want risque or off-color entertain-
ment. The food is adequate and the floor show is usually
above par.

There is also Joe Cotton's Steak Ranch, where many name
acts have played and where the steaks are as advertised.

You can't depend on the legit theater to entertain you be-
cause with the road what it is comparatively few touring
shows come to Peachtree.

If, by chance, you are interested in rambling farther out
into the state (and it's not a bad idea, at that), you can find
many spots of interest and a few excellent places to stay.
On the road, however, you'll not find more than a handful of
acceptable eating places because that famous Southern cook-
ing you've heard so much about is done principally in the
kitchens of private homes and is not available at roadside
cafes.

There is, however, one word of caution you should take
to heart: Think twice before patronizing a place that ad-
vertises "Bar-B-Q" because the odds are against your get-
ting any authentic barbecue, and what you do get may well
bore a hole in your stomach.

If you are determined to have barbecue, however and
it's wonderful when properly prepared you will make no
mistake if you drop into Sprayberry's place in Newnan,

Y'ALL COME 205

Georgia. And while you're about it, give the Brunswick stew
a chance.

If you're in north Georgia, you can't miss the mountains,
and youll find them beautiful. Browse around such places
as Blue Ridge, BlairsviUe, Hiawassee, Dahlonega, Cleveland,
Lakemont, and Clayton. You'll not only get your eyes full,
but you can find excellent centers for filling the inner man
(or woman).

Dropping down a little to the south you'll find Atlanta
(surprised?) and the much it has to offer together with the
facilities of adjacent towns. You might enjoy looking in on
the University of Georgia at Athens and being told that it
is the oldest chartered state university in the United States.

If you're in the western side of the state under no circum-
stances pass up the Ida Cason Callaway Gardens, near Chip-
ley. This is an adventure in beauty that began only a few
years ago but has already become one of the show places of
the nation. It features one of the finest inland beaches in the
world and horticultural exhibits that overpower the senses.

During a tour of the state last year that was sponsored
by the Georgia State Chamber of Commerce, an irreverent
Yankee travel editor of an important northern newspaper
looked in awe about him at the Ida Cason Callaway Gardens
and remarked, "Ain't it wonderful what God could do if he
had money?"

While in the neighborhood don't fail to visit Warm Springs
and the Little White House in which President Roosevelt
died on April 12, 1945, of a massive cerebral hemorrhage as
he was preparing to join the working press corps at an old-
fashioned Southern barbecue. It is at Warm Springs that
F.D.R. fought his way back to robust health after being
slapped down by polio, and it is here that you will find the
most complete hospital in the world for treatment of the
aftereffects of infantile paralysis.

206 PEACHTBEE PABADE

You'll also want to visit Columbus and the gigantic Fort
Benning, one of Uncle Sam's most imposing military instal-
lations, and maybe see a paratrooper taking a practice jump.

Southeast of Columbus you will find Albany, Georgia
(pronounced AH-BENNY by some of the natives), and
nearby is Radium Springs, a fabulous spot featuring clear
blue water that remains at a constant temperature of sixty-
eight degrees all year. It is here that you will fall under the
spell of hospitable Horace Caldwell, who will see to it that
your visit is a pleasant one whether you stay only for a meal
in the Casino or remain indefinitely in the inn or engage a
cottage or are housed in other of his modern facilities.

Before you get this far down in the state, however, you
may want to stop off in Indian Springs and quaff the healing
waters. Sulphur is the principal flavoring, and it may be just
to your taste. In case it is, or even if it is not, don't fail to
drop in on the James Cornells pere et filsa.t their Elder
Hotel and enjoy, among other things, the finest pancakes to
be found on either side of the Mason-Dixon Line.

Should your steering wheel lead you over to the eastern
part of the state there's Augusta, where the famous Augusta
National Golf Course sprawls lush and green across a goodly
portion of Richmond County. This is the course that Bobby
Jones inspired and which is the scene of the annual Masters'
Golf Tournament. The Augusta National also has a star
boarder who is occasionally in residence by the name of
Eisenhower. He's said to be doing right well in politics.

Don't get your heart too set on seeing the Augusta Na-
tional course unless you are very buddy-buddy with a mem-
ber or unless the Masters 7 is in progress. It is not open to the
public.

If you find yourself smack-dab in the middle of the state
there's Macon with its Wesleyan College and a textile in-
dustry that won't quit. And if it's near mealtime run over

Y'ALL COME 207

to Perry, Georgia, and sample the cooking at the New Perry
Hotel best eating place in that part of the state.

Maybe you'll see a sign that points to Waycross, and if so,
go as swiftly as the law will allow and visit the Okef enokee
Swamp, or "Land of the Trembling Earth," as the Indians
called it. Look up a guy named Liston Elkins and tell him I
sent you.

From Waycross it's not so far over to Brunswick with its
great seafood canning industry, and if you'll keep going,
youTl find the Golden Isles of Guale with Sea Island and
St. Simons affording much that the visitor desires. On Sea
Island is the famous Cloister Hotel, one of America's best.
(I don't know of many other hotels that stay booked to ca-
pacity the year around.)

Then, on neighboring St. Simons is the King and Prince,
an excellent hotel in its own right. You may see a sign with
an arrow pointing to the Sea Island Yacht Club. That is
your cue to drop in (if it's after 6:00 P.M.) and have a bang-
up dinner with Eddie Savard. There are other fine eating
places in the neighborhood. In fact, you can hardly miss.

Proceeding in an easterly direction, you will come to Sa-
vannah, where this whole business of Georgia started in the
first place with the landing of General Edward Oglethorpe
and associates at Yamacraw Bluff on February 12, 1733.

If there are ladies in your party they will "Ooh" and "Aah"
plenty over Savannah, the city characterized by the pub-
licity-loving Lady Astor as, "A gracious old lady with a dirty
face," or something like that. The Lady was no lady to
make such a remark. While in Savannah, don't fail to ride out
toward Savannah Beach and stop at a little frame building
that houses the Williams seafood restaurant. Mr. and Mrs.
Williams won't serve you any beer or whisky, and they won't
let you drink your own, but they'll serve you the best deviled
crab in the world. (I'm talking about real honest-to-goodness

208 PEACHTREE PAEADE

deviled crab and not something fancied up by a French chef. )
Then, on your way back into Savannah (if you have gone on
out to Savannah Beach and given your digestion a chance
to function) seek out Johnny Harris's place and have a go
at the crab meat au gratin. (And Johnny's not particular
about the drinks.)

These are just a few random tips based on personal ex-
perience and have nothing to do with an organized expe-
dition. If that's the sort of thing you have in mind hurry to
the nearest bookshop and get a copy of Georgia A Guide
to Its Towns and Countryside, revised and extended by
George G. Leckie. It is published by Tupper & Love (re-
member them?) and sells for six dollars a copy. In this book
you will find everything there is to know about the Empire
State of the South, with facts, figures, and even maps and
photographs.

On second thought, there may be one vital thing missing
from the book a guide to the hospitable treatment that will
meet you on every hand.

Georgia, I like to think, is made up of a lot of towns and
cities with "Peachtrees" of their own. They may call them
Main Street or Broad Street or perhaps some name with
local significance; but they are essentially the same with
warm friendliness and quick hospitality for the stranger
within their gates.

A Guy Named Joe

THE FIRST TIME I SAW JOE KELLEY HE WAS LYING 3DST A HOSPITAL

bed dead from the neck down. Multiple sclerosis, or "the
creeping death," had claimed him as a victim. He could not
move his arms or legs. His respiration was labored. But he
could smile.

It was not a forced smile. It was the genuine article. Joe
Kelley was a cheerful guy. He also had guts. G. Reaper
couldn't scare him.

When Joe closed his eyes in sleep at night, he was not at
all sure he would ever open them again. Death kept inching
up on him all the time, and he knew there would come a
moment when his heart (stout though it was) would be
overpowered and the curtain would come down.

209

210 PEACHTREE PABADE

Astounding as it may sound, Joe considered his affliction a
blessing in disguise.

"Otherwise/' he said to me during my first visit to his bed-
side, "how would I ever have found out fust how kind and
thoughtful people can be?"

There was no doubt about the fact that Joe Kelley was the
number-one patient at the A. G. Rhodes Home on Atlanta's
Boulevard, S.E. His friends came in great numbers and per-
formed many kindnesses for him. He had been a teacher in
one of the city's great high schools, and he was not forgotten
by the students who had sat at his feet. They recalled how
during the last couple of years he taught he had come to the
classroom in a wheel chair and, for the last few months, was
carried bodily (wheel chair and all) from his nearby apart-
ment to the school building by devoted pupils.

Several persons had called at my office to tell me about Joe
Kelley. They thought I might do a column that would en-
courage people to visit him, because he enjoyed visitors more
than anything else. So that was why shortly before Christ-
mas in 1952 I visited him.

Joe and I hit it off immediately. I admired his courage
more than anything else, I suppose, and he looked on me as
his personal newspaperman who could keep him informed
about what was going on outside. In any case, I became a
regular visitor, and as Christmas drew nearer, a notion be-
gan to take form that I put on paper. Here's what I wrote:

Would you like to do something extra special this Christmas
to add to the happiness of a guy who may not be here next
Christmas? If so, I have a plan and will be glad here and now
to outline it for you.

Joe Kelley, a former Boys High and Grady High School
teacher, is lying in a bed in the A.G. Rhodes Home, unable to
move hand or foot and waiting for whatever the multiple scle-
rosis, with which he is stricken, has in store for him.

A GUY NAMED JOE 211

Joe Kelley is one of the most cheerful people I know, despite
the disease that keeps inching up on him and narrowing his
orbit of activity from day to day. At present he can move Ms
head and that is all.

I realize there are many deserving people in Atlanta who
need a hand this Christmas and many persons and agencies
are striving in their behalf.

But Joe Kelley is my project. He has enlisted my sympathetic
support because it would never occur to him to ask for it. Joe
never asks for anything except to see his friends and maintain
a degree of contact with the outside world.

Now, it is unlikely that you know Joe Kelley. A lot of people
don't. But those of us who do have been inspired and uplifted by
his cheerful acceptance of as tough a break as a man ever had.
We want to help him and would like for you to join us.

So here is my plan for you to help a fine, courageous man who
has been dealt a sorry hand by fate but is playing it out without
whining or appealing for sympathy:

When you are mailing out your Christmas cards as you likely
are doing right now send an extra one to Joe Kelley. I can
think of no grander thrill for Joe than to have his room filled
with Christmas cards and to know that a lot of folks many of
them strangers are thinking of him and cheering him on in his
battle with a relentless opponent.

Now, if I have sold you on the idea of sending Joe Kelley a
Christmas card I would like, without pressing my luck too far, to
suggest one more step in giving this game and courageous guy
a little more of a lift. It is this: after you have signed the Christ-
mas card and are preparing to put it in the envelope reach
into your pocket and take out a $1 bill and enclose it with your
greetings. That will automatically make you a member of the
Joe Kelley Dollar Bill Club.

Of course, if you should enclose a larger bill it will be just
that much better.

The reason for the $1 bill is this: Joe receives a pension of
$60 a month from the Atlanta Public School system he taught
from a wheel chair for a year and a half to qualify for it which

212 PEACHTREE PARADE

just about carries him now but if and when the time comes that
he will require special nursing he's going to need a lot more
money money which he has no way of earning.

So, I thought that perhaps you would like to include Joe Kelley
among those you remember this Christmas. If you do, I am sure
Joe will appreciate it more than any other person on your list.

By the way be sure of one thing. Don't tell Joe. He knows
nothing about this and unless someone reads the paper to him
he will not know about it until the cards and bills come flooding
in, as I earnestly hope they will.

If you care to join in this little enterprise to give a brave,
cheerful guy the finest Christmas he ever had just address your
card to Joe Kelley, A.G. Rhodes Home, 350 Boulevard, S.E.,
Atlanta, Ga. Or, if you can't remember all of that, just send
it to me and 111 see that it reaches him.

I think you'll enjoy this Christmas better if you join the Joe
Kelley Dollar Bill Club.

During my more than a dozen years of columning, some
four thousand pieces have gone through my mill, but none
ever got as much action as the one just reproduced. The
response was instantaneous and almost terrifying. The mail
clerks at The Journal were stampeded. The people at the
A. G. Rhodes Home were overwhelmed.

It had been my plan to go out to the Home on Christmas
Day and open the cards and letters for Joe, but several days
before Christmas Miss Genia Wiley, who ran the establish-
ment, called for an emergency conference.

"These cards and letters are coming in by the thousands,"
she said. "If we don't do something about them now., well
never get them all opened on Christmas Day. Furthermore,
if they keep flooding in at the rate they're coining now,
we won't have anywhere to store them/'

So, it was decided that Joe should begin celebrating
Christmas a few days ahead of time. We took basket after

A GUY NAMED JOE 213

basket of cards and letters into Joe's room and began piling
them on his bed and on the floor. Joe's eyes almost popped
out of his head,

"What's all of this?" he inquired.

"Just a few Christmas cards and stuff for you/' he was told.

His tired eyes filled with tears. It was the first time I had
seen him break up.

"What have I done to deserve all of this?" he finally man-
aged to ask.

"You wouldn't understand if I told you, Joe" was my reply.

That night, far past Joe's bedtime, I sat and opened en-
velopes containing greetings and cash for Joe Kelley. He
wanted every message read to him. This was done. He paid
little or no attention to the money. It was the human under-
standing contained in the notes that fed his hungry heart.

For the next several days Bill Gibson, a close friend of
Joe's and an auditor of great talent, and I spent several hours
each afternoon opening Joe's mail and counting the contri-
butions. Before Christmas Day arrived thousands of dollars
had accumulated.

In the beginning I had hoped to get Joe Kelley a Christ-
mas present. Instead, the warmhearted people of Peachtree
and its tributaries had given him an estate.

As the amount of the contributions continued to increase,
I saw help would be needed in caring for the fund. So I
caEed Mills B. Lane, Jr., the head of one of Atlanta's largest
banks, and asked for advice.

"Mills," I said. "I've got a lot of money that belongs to
Joe Kelley. It keeps coming in, and I've got to know what to
do with it."

"Come on over and well discuss ways and means," Mr.
Lane said.

So I hustled over to the Citizens and Southern National

214 PEACHTREE PARADE

Bank with a couple of brief cases full of cash and plopped
them on the banker's desk.

Mr. Lane, an enthusiastic person whose motto is "It's
a wonderful world," went into action. He called in his vice-
presidents; he called in his cashiers; he called in his trust
officers; he told one and all that a big deal was in progress
and tie wanted everyone to help. Banker Lane couldn't have
been more excited if the sum had been millions instead of
thousands.

When the excitement died down a trust fund had been
created for Joe KeHey to which subsequent additions were
made.

On Christmas Day, 1952, I spent the afternoon with Joe
Kelley. His eyes glistened with happiness. Many friends
came and went. He talked of the days when he was teaching
school. He recalled little anecdotes concerning various hap-
penings in the not-so-long-ago when he was up and about
and full of the joy of living.

Never once, however, did he mention his current affliction.
In the joy of having been pressed close to the warm and gen-
erous heart of a great city he seemed to forget that his to-
morrows would be fewer and that the sands were running
swiftly through the glass.

As I prepared to take my leave I took his cold, thin hand
in mine. I looked into his eyes and saw all the thanks that
words cannot say. I thought I felt a slight pressure of his
hand on mine.

"You will never know what you have done for me/' he
said. "But I must tell you that this has been the happiest
Christmas of my life. To have so many, many people include
me in their Christmas thoughts is just wonderful."

His pale face turned in the shadows, and a bright tear slip-
ped from a corner of his eye onto the pillow.

A GUY NAMED JOE 215

Tm a very lucky guy," he said as I released his hand and
turned toward the door.

I saw Joe Kelley several times after that and watched him
yield more and more to the encroachments of unrelenting
disease. Toward the close of the summer of 1953 he seemed
to be rapidly approaching the end. His body wasted even
further away as he fought a losing fight against his deadly
foe.

But he never backed off from the inevitable. The last time
I saw him was a few weeks before his death, and even then,
with the shadows drawing closer, his manner was cheerful,
and in him there was no reproach or self-pity.

Joe Kelley died on September 15, 1953.

He had hoped to enjoy one more Christmas, but he didn't
make it.

There are those who say a great city has no heart. They
argue that where thousands upon thousands of people are
drawn together in one locality, the problem of the individual
becomes of little or no concern to others. "Cold" is the ad-
jective they sometimes use.

But that is certainly not true of Peachtree and its environs.
Joe Kelley found out it wasn't so. He discovered and gleaned
new faith and satisfaction in the discovery that a busy,
bustling, growing city has time to give attention to an ob-
scure schoolteacher slapped down by an unkind fate es-
pecially if he has the courage to endure adversity with cheer-
fulness and fight gallantly in the face of overwhelming odds.

Give My Regards to Peachtree

WHEN YOU'VE BEEN UP AND DOWN A STREET AS MUCH AS i HAVE
traveled Peachtree, you develop a feeling for it that is more
than affection and closely akin to love. And the people you
get to know become a part of an ever-increasing family that
is drawn closer together with the passing years.

As a kid in Boys High School, I used to hang around Tom
Pitts's soda fountain at Five Points and drink the best choco-
late milks in the world for five cents a copy. When I became
a little older, I hung out at the Nunnafiy candy store and
soda fountain at 101 Peachtree to watch the flappers go
tripping by and occasionally lure one inside to quaff an ice-
cream soda price, ten cents that was out of this world.

216

GIVE MY REGABDS TO PEACHTREE 217

As a young reporter fired with zeal to become another
Ward Greene or an O. B. Keeler, I was wont to stride with
feigned insouciance into the Rex Saloon for a covert glimpse
at the well-upholstered but scantily adorned charmer whose
likeness was preserved in provocative oils in the painting
that hung over the bar.

Later on, I loved to prowl backstage in the theaters and
taste of the pleasures that were afforded when the lights had
been turned up and the people of the night awoke to the
excitement that a growing, pulsing city on the go had to
offer.

And now that the fires of youth have cooled and I have
reached that tranquil plateau where reason has overcome
impetuosity and sanity has conquered desire, I love to stroll
this thrilling thoroughfare that is Peachtree and feel the
heartbeat of an old friend.

To me Peachtree Street has been the red carpet rolled out
by a warm and hospitable city inviting me to partake of her
best ... to learn her secrets and enjoy her confidences ... to
know her people and hold them to my heart.

On this magic avenue I see the friends who have shared
the journey and have added to its enjoyment.

As I pass the old buildings, I rub against their friendly
surfaces to assure myself that all of this is real and not the
gossamer substance of a dream.

And why has Peachtree meant so much to me? Principally
because of the choice I made one day back in November,
1920, when I turned into No. 7 Forsyth Street and took a seat
on the rim of The Journal's copy desk instead of stopping a
block farther up the street to accept an office job with a
large insurance company.

Why did I make this choice? Because the scent of printer's
ink was in my nostrils; the tingle of a newspaper crackling

218 PEACHTREE PAHADE

with static electricity as it came right off the press had stirred
my blood; because, more than anything else, I wanted to be
a newspaperman.

Was it a good choice? It was the only one for me. How
else could I keep my finger on the pulse of my native city?
How else could I feel the thrill of news in the making? How
else could I satisfy that prodding curiosity that is ever
present?

If you are a newspaperman, you can never be happy at
anything else. You may gripe and grumble about how much
money you could make in some other job, but you know deep
in your heart that wealth is not the answer. You remember
what Asa Candler said: "Happiness is the main thing, and
money does not bring it*

The newspaperman is the historian of right now. He writes
literature under pressure so that those who run may read.
It is the newspaperman who makes the heroes and the bums.
On what he hears and sees depends the future's estimate of
who did what and to whom. There is no point in scoring a
Grand Slam at golf or discovering the North and South Poles
on the same day unless there is a newspaperman on hand to
supply the details and let the folks back home know about it.

The newspaperman is the creator of fame because he is the
little guy with the press card in his hatband who lets others
know what happened where and when and why. He used
to be the Town Crier; he is now the World Crier.

The newspaperman is above price and unmindful of in-
fluence. He can't be bribed, nor can he be dissuaded from
his duty by threats or promises even though he may have
holes in the seat of his pants and have no idea where last
month's rent is coming from.

The newspaperman is the conscience of his town, his

GIVE MY REGARDS TO PEACHTREE 219

county, his state, his nation, and his world. He wants to know
the truth, and he won't quit until he finds it.

The newspaperman is the difference between democracy
and dictatorship. Lock the doors in his face, and human
rights and liberties go out the window. He wants nothing for
himself that all can't share. But he is the spotlight that shines
into dark comers and exposes the ogres of greed and double-
dealing.

If there is any nobler calling than that of the newspaper-
man it has not as yet been clearly defined. He is minister,
judge, confessor, counselor, all rolled into one. He reports
the facts as he finds them without fear or favor or hope of
reward. He is, to put it in a word, "Truth!"

Payment for services rendered in the newspaper business
is in a very special currency.

How much money would it take to buy the satisfaction of
that moment just before Christmas in 1952 when I told Joe
Kelley that through the generosity of the readers of my col-
umn in The Journal he had no more financial worries?

Is there enough money under guard in the vaults at Fort
Knox to buy a night like the one I had on October 27, 1953,
when the people of Peachtree did me high honor and gave
me a birthday party that caused time to stand still and
stopped the calendar in its tracks?

Can you put a price tag on the tears of gratitude that
spilled on my coat sleeve from the eyes of the woman whose
husband I, through my newspaper, had been able to snatch
from the abyss of the dope habit?

No. These are the intangibles that make the figures on a
bank statement meaningless.

As a representative of a great newspaper I have been ad-
mitted to the counsels of the mighty and the confidences of
the meek. It has been an open sesame to the inner workings

220 PEACHTBEE PARADE

o a wonderful city to be known merely as a member of The
Atlanta Journal staff. And I have never identified myself as
such without a feeling of pride in my professon and my
newspaper.

There have, in fact, been two Atlanta Journals on which
1 have worked.

The "old" Journal to which I have referred in these pages
was The Journal of Major John S. Cohen, John A. Brice,
Charles D. Atkinson, John D. Simmons, Dick and Inman
Gray, John Paschall, Harllee Branch, Wright Bryan, J. S.
Pope, Hunter BeU, Edwin Camp, William Cole Jones, Mor-
gan Blake, and others of that gallant crew.

This regime came to an end on December 12, 1939, when
the "old" Journal was sold to former Governor James M.
Cox, of Ohio. And thus the "new" Journal is the The Journal
of Governor Cox, James M. Cox, Jr., George C. Biggers, Sr.,
Horace Powell, Jack Tarver, James Saxon Childers, H. B.
Wilcox, Bill Ray, Don Carter, George C. Biggers, Jr., Ed
Danforth, Arthur Daniel, and others who are presently in
command.

But, at the core, there is no difference. The "new" Journal,
perhaps, moves at a faster tempo to keep abreast of the ac-
celerated times, but the new, even as the old, holds ever
aloft the banners of truth in the printed word and devotion
to the highest tenets of a free press.

The Peachtree Parade goes winding on. In the reviewing
stand I have seen much of it pass, but there is more to come
in other years, in other circumstances. The paraders of the
past have given way to the paraders of the present, and an-
other group is assembling just around the corner in the fu-
ture.

There won't, of course, be another Asa G. Candler to
galvanize the economic life of Peachtree as he did; there

GIVE MY REGARDS TO PEACHTREE 221

won't be another Bobby Jones to illuminate the fairways of
the world with his unequaled skill and matchless sportsman-
ship; there won't be another Margaret Mitchell to write an-
other Gone with the Wind and electrify the world as she did
with her story of survival under stress.
But there will be others. The parade never ends

..,, i HIB j mil j

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