ers of old Southern
families in Reduced Circumstances. The cashier was a scrub named
Hawkins, from Ann Arbor, Michigan, who had recommendations and a bond
from a guarantee company filed with the owners. Even Georgia stock
companies sometimes realize that it takes live ones to bury the dead.

Well, sir, if you believe me, _The Rose of Dixie_ blossomed five times
before anybody heard of it except the people who buy their hooks and
eyes in Toombs City. Then Hawkins climbed off his stool and told on
'em to the stock company. Even in Ann Arbor he had been used to having
his business propositions heard of at least as far away as Detroit. So
an advertising manager was engaged--Beauregard Fitzhugh Banks, a young
man in a lavender necktie, whose grandfather had been the Exalted High
Pillow-slip of the Kuklux Klan.

In spite of which _The Rose of Dixie_ kept coming out every month.
Although in every issue it ran photos of either the Taj Mahal or
the Luxembourg Gardens, or Carmencita or La Follette, a certain
number of people bought it and subscribed for it. As a boom for it,
Editor-Colonel Telfair ran three different views of Andrew Jackson's
old home, "The Hermitage," a full-page engraving of the second battle
of Manassas, entitled "Lee to the Rear!" and a five-thousand-word
biography of Belle Boyd in the same number. The subscription list that
month advanced 118. Also there were poems in the same issue by Leonina
Vashti Haricot (pen-name), related to the Haricots of Charleston,
South Carolina, and Bill Thompson, nephew of one of the stockholders.
And an article from a special society correspondent describing a
tea-party given by the swell Boston and English set, where a lot of
tea was spilled overboard by some of the guests masquerading as
Indians.

One day a person whose breath would easily cloud a mirror, he was so
much alive, entered the office of _The Rose of Dixie_. He was a man
about the size of a real-estate agent, with a self-tied tie and a
manner that he must have borrowed conjointly from W. J. Bryan,
Hackenschmidt, and Hetty Green. He was shown into the editor-colonel's
_pons asinorum_. Colonel Telfair rose and began a Prince Albert bow.

"I'm Thacker," said the intruder, taking the editor's chair--"T. T.
Thacker, of New York."

He dribbled hastily upon the colonel's desk some cards, a bulky manila
envelope, and a letter from the owners of _The Rose of Dixie_. This
letter introduced Mr. Thacker, and politely req