Huge Whim

A Kansas cyclone is a conventional, straightforward sort of catastrophe which comes, blows, goes. More whimsical is a Florida hurricane. Last week residents of Florida's east coast, warned of a hurricane offshore, lashed their awnings, took down their swinging signs, boarded up their show windows, brought home emergency rations, crowded into the supposedly safer southeast rooms of their houses, waited. Still the hurricane dallied among the Bahamas.

For four days Floridans waited thus. Finally a 60-mile gale, offshoot of the loitering hurricane, whooshed down on Miami. Telephone and electric lines were blown down, otherwise there was little damage. Floridans began to call the hurricane a second-rater, when from Nassau, capital of the Bahamas, came delayed reports : Most destructive hurricane in Bahamian history. . . . Wracked Nassau for two days. . . . Velocity of gusts 180 miles. . . . Eight known dead. . . . Enormous destruction of property and shipping. . . . Only a few ships afloat. . . . No building escaped injury. . . . Sea wall broken, city flooded.

Residents of Florida, of the Florida Keys, of Cuba, gulped. The progress of the city-swasher was unpredictable, they could only wait.

The vagrant hurricane at length skirted the southern tip of Florida, blew down grapefruit trees, electric lines, a few buildings. Three Floridans were electrocuted by downed wires. Then it veered northwest. While relieved Miamians took down their barricades, cowering residents of Pensacola and Mobile frantically prepared for the worst.