e, 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 space-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 trimmings, 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
brass 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