front porch screens were wrecked, but only recently his roof had been tarred and this, with its protected position saved his property. Some rather prided themselves upon the superior construction that exempted them, whereas, it was due in many cases to protected position, though this cannot be set down as invariable. It was so in the case of our own garage, which stood between our home and Mr. Sutherland's, for while the roof was taken off and several concrete blocks were dislodged it was otherwise unharmed, and the garage of our neighbor, down the street, that had no protection, was a complete and hopeless wreck.
My first trip to the down town section was quite the reverse of a triumphal entry. I had only recently undergone a surgical operation and my locomotion was considerably impeded by the pain which I still felt. This of itself was enough to discourage one but when I viewed the wreckage on every side my heart sank, and I wondered at the hardihood of those energetic and strong hearted persons whom I saw clearing away the debris and making the way for a new start in life. This was particularly sad when I reflected that some thus engaged were fully sixty years of age, and more. Yet, it gave me courage, for I lack much yet of being of that age, and though I felt depressed I could not fail to draw a lesson in optimism from those who were going ahead so bravely to recoup their fortunes.
As I passed through Buena Vista it was sorrowful to see the damage that had been done there. Moore's handsome furniture store had been badly dealt with, the entire top story had been taken off of Shackelford's garage, the Biltmore theatre was in ruins and among the most ghastly wrecks was the home of our dear friend, Mrs. Sarah R. W. Palmer. I was to learn later that their escape from personal injury had been miraculous. But such instances were too numerous to recount. One illustration is sufficient to show how near to death many were and yet escaped. In the home of one of my neighbors, R. D. Stephens, two concrete blocks fell through the roof upon a bed, where lay Mr. and Mrs. Alex Helgren and their two-year-old daughter, Dorothy; a block rested at the head and one at the feet of the child with not enough space between blocks and child to place one's hand, and yet not one of the occupants was hurt, not even scratched.
Down town I met Morris Singleton, son of the poet, Stephen Cochran Singleton, who told me that his brother, Bert, and wife were out in a launch somewhere among the Keys, and he was starting a search for them. Morris visibly was worried, which was natural, for we knew no one could have weathered the storm in a launch. It turned
