Springfield, Missouri, the queen city of the Ozarks, was a thriving town at the end of the civil war when my father hung out a sign on the southwest corner of the public square, notifying the public that he was an attorney-at-law. Fantastic and alluring tales had reached his ears long before the ink on his diploma was dry - tales of a land flowing with milk and honey. So abundant was the honey that it was used to grease wagons, and bee trees dotted the landscape. All one had to do was to step outside his cabin, bore a hole, and scoop up the booty.