"Right _in_ the city?"

"Well, in the trolley-car territory."

"But in the city itself?" my companion insisted.

The secretary was fairly cornered. "The 1910 census," he said, with a smile, "gave us about forty thousand."

"Thirty-eight thousand one hundred and thirty-six," corrected my companion. He had not spent hours with the guidebook for nothing.

When, presently, we got into the automobile, I gave another feeble chirp about the fair, but the secretary was adamant, so we yielded temporarily, and were whirled about the city.

Montgomery is a charming old town, not only by reason of the definite things it has to show, but also because of a general rich suggestion of old southern life.

The day, by a fortunate chance, was Sat.u.r.day, and everywhere we went we encountered negroes driving in from the country to market, in their rickety old wagons. On some wagons there would be four or five men and women, and here and there one would be playing a musical instrument and they would all be singing, while the creaking of the wagon came in with an orchestral quality which seemed grotesquely suitable. The mules, too, looked as though they ought to creak, and an inspection of the harness suggested that it was held together, not so much by the string and wire with which it was mended, as by the fingers of that especial Providence which watches over all kinds of absurd repairs made by negroes, and makes them hold for negroes, where they would not hold for white men.

In an old buff-painted brick building standing on the corner of Commerce and Bibb Streets, the Confederate Government had its first offices, and from this building, if I mistake not, was sent the telegraphic order to fire on Fort Sumter. Another historical building is the dilapidated frame residence at the corner of Bibb and Lee Streets, which was the first "White House of the Confederacy." This building is now a boarding house, and is in a pathetic state of decay. But perhaps when Montgomery gets up the energy to build a fine tourist hotel, or when outside capital comes in and builds one, the old house will be furbished up to provide a "sight" for visitors.

There are several reasons why Montgomery would be a good place for a large winter-resort hotel, and if I were a Montgomery "booster" I should give less thought to free factory sites than to building up the town as a winter stopping place for tourists. The town itself is picturesque and attractive; as to railroads it is well situated (albeit the claim that Montgomery is the "Gateway to Florida" strikes me as a little bit exaggerated); the climate is delightful, and the surrounding country is not only beautiful but fertile. Furthermore, there are already two golf clubs--one for Jews and one for Gentiles--and the links are reputed to be good.

Unlike many southern cities of moderate size, Montgomery has well-paved streets, and the better residence streets, being wide, and lined with trees and pleasant houses, each in its own lawn, give a suggestion of an agreeable home and social life--a suggestion which, by implication at least, report substantiates: for it has been said that the chief industry of Montgomery is that of raising beautiful young women to make wives for the rich men of Birmingham.

On such pleasant thoroughfares as South Perry Street, it may be noticed that many of the newer houses have taken their architectural inspiration from old ones, with the result that, though "originality" does not jump out at the pa.s.ser-by, as it does on so many streets, North and South, which are lined with the heterogeneous homes of prosperous families, there is an agreeable architectural harmony over the town.

This is not, of course, invariably true, but it is truer, I think, in Montgomery than in most other cities, and if Montgomery is defaced by the funny little settlement called Bungalow City, that settlement is, at least, upon the outskirts of the town. Bungalow City is without exception the queerest real-estate development I ever saw. It consists of several blocks of tiny houses, standing on tiny lots, the scale of everything being so small as to suggest a play village for children. The houses are, however, homes, and I was told that in some of them all sorts of curious s.p.a.ce-saving devices are installed--as, for instance, tables and beds which can be folded into the walls. Not far from this little settlement is an old house which used to be the home of Tweed, New York's notorious political boss, who, it is said, used to spend much time here.

The chief lion of the city is the old State House, which stands on a graceful eminence in a small well-kept park. Just as the New York State Capitol is probably the most shamefully expensive structure of the kind in the entire country, that of Alabama is, I fancy, the most creditably inexpensive. Building and grounds cost $335,000. Moreover, the Capitol of Alabama is a better-looking building than that of New York, for it is without gingerbread tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs, and has about it the air of honest simplicity that an American State House ought to have. Of course it has a dome, and of course it has a columned portico, but both are plain, and there is a large clock, in a quaint box-like tower, over the peak of the portico, which contributes to the building a curious touch of individuality. At the center of the portico floor, under this clock, a bra.s.s plate marks the spot where Jefferson Davis stood when he delivered his inaugural address, February 18, 1861, and in the State Senate Chamber, within--a fine simple room with a gallery of peculiar grace--the Provisional Government of the Confederacy was organized. The flag of the Confederacy was, I believe, adopted in this room, and was first flung to the breeze from the Capitol building.

It was past three in the afternoon when we left the State House, and we had had no luncheon.

"Now," said my companion as we returned to the automobile, "I think we had better have something to eat, and then go to the fair."

"But you were going to give up the fair," put in the secretary.

"Oh, no," we said in chorus.

"I have arranged about luncheon," he returned. "We will have it served at the hotel in a short time. But first there are some important sights I wish you to see."

"Man shall not live by sights alone," objected my companion. "What are you going to show us?"

"We have a beautiful woman's college."

"That," said my companion, "is the one thing that could tempt me. How many beautiful women are there?"

"It's not the women--it's the building," the secretary explained.

"Then," said my companion firmly, "I think we'd better go and have our lunch."

It seemed to me time to back him up in this demand. By dint of considerable insistence we persuaded our enthusiastic cicerone to drive to the hotel, where we found a table already set for us.

"I want to tell you," said the secretary as we sat down, "about the agricultural progress this section has been making. Until recently our farmers raised nothing but cotton; they didn't even feed themselves, but lived largely on canned goods. But the boll weevil and the European War, affecting the cotton crop and the cotton market as they did, forced the farmers to wake up."

The secretary talked interestingly on this subject for perhaps a quarter of an hour, during which time we waited for luncheon to be served.

"You see," he said, "our climate is such that it is possible to rotate crops more than in most parts of the country. Cotton is now a surplus crop with us, and our farmers are raising cattle, vegetables, and food products."

"Speaking of food products," said my companion, "I wonder if we could hurry up the lunch?"

"It will be along in a little while," soothed the secretary. Then he returned to agriculture.

Ten minutes more pa.s.sed. I saw that my companion was becoming nervous.

"I'm sorry to trouble you," he said at last, "but if we can't speed up this luncheon, I don't see how I can wait. You see, we are leaving town this evening, and I have an awful lot to do."

"I'll step back and investigate," the secretary said, rising and moving toward the kitchen door.

When he was out of hearing, my companion leaned toward me.

"I suspect this fellow!" he said.

"What of?"

"I think he's delaying us on purpose. He's a nice chap, but it's his business to boost this town, and he's artful. He doesn't want us to see the street fair. That's why he's stalling like this!"

Now, however, the secretary returned, followed by a waiter bearing soup.

The soup was fine, but it was succeeded by another long interval, during which the secretary said some very, very beautiful things about the charm of Montgomery life. However, it was clear to me that my companion was not interested. After he had looked at his watch several times, and drummed a long tattoo upon the table, he arose, declaring:

"I can't wait another minute."

"Sit down, my dear fellow," said the secretary in his most genial tone.

"I am having some special southern dishes prepared for you."

"You're very kind," said my companion, "but I must get to work. It's half-past four now; we are leaving in a few hours. It will take me an hour to make my sketches, and the light will be failing pretty soon."

"What are you going to sketch?" It seemed to me that there was suppressed emotion in the secretary's voice as he asked the question.

"Why, the street fair."

"Surely, you're not going to _draw_ it?"

"Why not?"

"It's not representative of Montgomery. You ought to do something representative! What pictures have you made here?"

"I made one of those negroes driving in to market," said my companion, "and one of the dancing cowgirls in the tent across the way--the ones who kept us awake last night."

"My G.o.d!" cried the secretary, turning to me. "You intend to print such pictures and say that they represent the normal life of this city?"