THE NEWS OF ALL NATIONS.

Tobacco Going Out of Style.

Discussing smoking among students in a chapel address, President Main, of Grinnell College, Grinnell, Iowa, declared that he expected the day to come when the use of the weed would be as obsolete as snuff taking now is.

“Time was,” said the president, “when everybody, from prince to pauper, prided himself on his ability to dip snuff, but now the only place you can find snuff boxes is in a museum of antiquities, and some day our descendants may have to go to these same museums to find our pipes and other smokers’ utensils.”

There is no definite faculty ordinance at Grinnell against smoking, but for years one of the unwritten laws of the students has been that there shall be no use of tobacco in public.

Pet Ground Hog Leaves Home.

About four years ago H. M. Adington, living near Hilliard, Ky., captured a ground hog. He soon had it tamed like any of his other domestic pets, and running about his premises as freely as his dog or cat. He finally had it so it would obey him just like a child.

While the ground hog was small, Adington pierced holes in its ears, intending to insert silver rings in the punctures for novelty and ornament, but he never could secure the rings.

Later, for some unsolved reason, unless the ground hog started out in search of its shadow, it disappeared. This was about four years ago. Recently a farmer living near Mr. Adington’s place shot and killed a ground hog, and in descriptions of it Adington quickly recognized that it was none other than his former pet.

Boy Weds Twelve-year-old Bride.

Eugene Bowman, aged twenty, has married Leona Hemphill, whose age is twelve years and six months, after courting the little maid for over two years. The bride’s mother is a widow with six children and she is said to have made no objection to the wedding. All parties are residents of Independence, La.

Bow and Arrows Fatal Weapon.

A bow and arrows constitute a deadly weapon. For driving two surveyors off his reservation farm with a shower of glass-tipped arrows, Willie Anton, an aged Pima, was convicted in the Federal court for the district of Arizona of assault with a deadly weapon and given a jail sentence of sixty days. Anton had a lawyer who interposed the defense that a bow and arrows are not a deadly weapon.

A Pleasant Railroad Story.

A grudge turned to gratitude is the unusual experience of John Hansen, a railroad conductor of Atchison, Kan. Years ago when he was a freight conductor he whipped a boy for hopping his train. The boy threatened to kill him, and for several years shouted threats at him when the train passed by.

Finally Hansen was promoted to a passenger train, and did not see the boy, as he passed through the town at night. Not long ago the conductor was in the lobby of a hotel at the terminal of his run when a powerfully framed man approached him and asked:

“Are you John Hansen?”

The conductor admitted it, and the stranger continued:

“Do you think you could whip me?”

Hansen admitted it was unlikely, as the stranger was a near giant.

“Well,” continued the stranger, “I am the fellow you whipped once for hopping trains, and I probably owe my sound legs, arms, and life to you. Shake hands.”

Girls, Do You Get This?

Declaring they were “watchfully waiting” for the right girl, twenty-two per cent of Princeton University’s seniors declared they had never been kissed. A fellow “never wanted to,” while others said they objected to kissing for “hygienic reasons.”

Oregon Town Has a Flesh-eating Horse.

In Seaside, Ore., they have what is often spoken of as the “flesh-eating” horse. This animal actually eats the flesh of raw clams, oysters, mussels, and some meats. He is especially fond of clams, and will eat them raw in preference to hay or grain; in fact, he will eat almost anything that is eaten by man or horse.

“Billie Bitters,” as he is called, is a horse of more than ordinary intelligence. He will point at a crab in a crab hole as a pointer points at a bird. He will follow his master from one digging ground to another, and should he be spoken harshly to, he will sulk like a scolded child, and the only way that he can be persuaded to follow his master again is to feed him some more clams.

Billie understands nearly everything that Mr. Scott says to him. Should he say: “Billie, it’s time to go home,” the horse will immediately turn the wagon around and start on the return trip for home.

Billie is a bunch-grass seven-year-old, and a native of eastern Oregon. He was brought to the beach by W. B. Scott, of Seaside, when but three years old and broken into the clam business. Billie has followed this line of work ever since.

Belle of the Ranch is Won by Movie Manager.

When Leonard B. Gratz arrived at the Laflin Beumer ranch in Vici, Okla., three years ago in charge of a moving-picture troupe, he found that not one of the movie actresses was capable of making one of those mad dashes on horseback that causes thrills in Western dramas.

He was about to give up hope, when he observed a pretty girl, with her hair streaming back, riding a galloping horse down the roadway. Gratz learned that the fair rider was Nellie Beumer, the ranch owner’s daughter. That same afternoon she successfully portrayed the rôle of the heroine before the movie camera, and Gratz was more than pleased.

When the picture players left the ranch, they observed a strong friendship between Miss Beumer and Gratz. This friendship was kept alive by correspondence, which finally led in the direction Gratz desired.

As a result they were married in a Congregational church in Chicago. Gratz is now president of a movie ticket company. The couple will spend their honeymoon at the Panama Exposition.

Interesting New Invention.

A machine with which he says any child can cut its own hair has been perfected by Joseph J. McDonough, of Rochester, Pa. The invention consists of an ordinary comb so constructed that a safety-razor blade is held firmly against each side, at any desired distance from the edge of the comb. By a system of springs these blades can be regulated so as to make the cut long or short. According to the inventor, a man can cut his hair while riding on a fast-moving train, an automobile, or even an aëroplane, without danger of cutting himself or spoiling the job.

Rich Youth is Killed by Saw.

John B. Tucker, twenty-three years old, fell against a circular saw in a mill near Haskell, Okla., and was killed. Tucker’s home was in Meadville, Pa., and he had inherited considerable property. He was working at the sawmill just because he liked the excitement, and was not on the pay roll.

Finds a Strange Gold Coin.

C. J. Poole, of Troy, N. C., reports having found a strange gold coin while plowing near Harrisville. He describes it as follows:

It is about the size of our silver half dollar; a little larger on the face, but not quite so thick. Obverse—female head and neck long, flowing curly hair, decorated with arrowheads; very prominent face, nose and mouth. Legend—10 Annes, V. D. G. Port, Et. A£g. Rex date 1750. A large capital “R” on bottom of neck and extending almost into the date figures. Reverse—crown coat of arms.

The coin is not quite round, but is evidently in its original shape. It weighs nearly half an ounce. This coin was probably lying in the ground during the Revolutionary War, but where it came from, who lost it or hid it, no one here knows. The coin is in fine condition.

Digs Out Mastodon’s Leg.

Ott Workman, while digging fence-post holes on his river bottom, near Sholes, Ind., unearthed a leg bone of a mastodon. It is in a good state of preservation.

Newspaper Recalls His Mind.

J. Foster Jenkins, a wealthy real-estate operator of Yonkers, N. Y., who disappeared April 7th, has been found in Cincinnati, Ohio, whither he wandered while a victim of amnesia. Mrs. Jenkins received from him a letter telling of his recovery. His picture, printed in a newspaper, restored his memory.

Canoe Owner Solves Problem.

The little power devices which have in recent years been placed on the market for use on rowboats by placing the device over the stern have proven very popular, but the owner of the canoe has been prevented from using it on account of the shape of the stern of the latter, which leaves no means of securing the engine and its necessary parts.

This has now been accomplished by an ingenious canoe owner by building a well in the canoe by two partitions extending across the boat, into which the engine is lowered after a hole has been cut through the bottom to accommodate the propeller shaft and blades. This arrangement has been found to be entirely satisfactory in practice.

Most Surprising Discovery.

The following was found on the examination papers of eleven-year-old Jimmy Henderson of the public school in Miami, Okla. It was entirely unintentional, being a list of names of the countries at war, which the pupils were required to write down:

G-ermany. R-ussia. A-ustria. B-elgium. F-rance. E-ngland. S-ervia. T-urkey.

What Compound Interest Does.

One dollar at five per cent compounded interest for one thousand years would amount to 104 quintillion, 69 quatrillion, 620 trillion, 917 billion, 985 million, 83 thousand, 389 dollars ($104,069,620,917,985,083,389). This is the result obtained by Edwin Soule, a freshman in the Newport High School in Marysville, Pa.

Assistant Principal G. W. Barnitz, of the school, wagered young Soule that he could not solve the problem. Soule worked until midnight, consuming two tablets and four pencils. He received his dollar.

Barefoot “Baron” of Kentucky Dies.

Rankin Clemmons, who died last week at the residence of D. B. Cawby, a tenant on one of his farms, near South Elkhorn, Ky., where he had made his home for nearly a year, was the largest individual holder of lands in the blue-grass region of Kentucky, probably the wealthiest citizen of Lexington County, and a man of many eccentricities.

Mr. Clemmons owned between 8,000 and 9,000 acres of land in Mercer, Jessamine, Woodford, and Fayette Counties, of which about 1,100 acres are in the latter.

All of Mr. Clemmons’ lands are of high quality, none being valued at less than $100 per acre, while much of it is estimated to be worth from $125 to $150 an acre. In addition, Mr. Clemmons is understood to have held considerable personalty, including cash, pending deals for more land, and his estate is estimated at nearly $1,500,000.

A notable feature of Mr. Clemmons’ acquisition of great wealth was the fact that he had never engaged in speculation or dabbled in city property, or stocks and bonds, but had amassed his wealth from the direct products of the soil.

His whole life was given to the accumulation of his fortune, his entire being seeming to be centered to that end. He had apparently no other interests, few attachments, no recreations, and many eccentricities, and by the latter he was most generally known in this county.

He had up to the end of his life gone barefooted in the summertime, except when he came to town; had never bought a newspaper or book; had never ridden in an automobile or upon an electric car, used a telephone, or, as far as is known, sent a telegraph message.

He was, however, a shrewd and alert observer, and kept well informed on current events through association with others and perusal of newspapers which happened to come into his hands without cost, and was not averse to utilizing modern farming implements in his agricultural operations. However, his life business was that of agricultural financier rather than farmer, he personally working little of his vast domain of blue-grass land.

The farming upon his property was done almost entirely by tenants, though he himself had daily done hard manual labor throughout his long life. Only last fall, when eighty-nine years old, he was cutting briers upon his place just before he became confined with the illness which caused his death.

A peculiarity was that he would never raise tobacco, not even on the shares with his tenants, as is the almost universal custom in the burley belt. If a man wanted to raise tobacco upon his land, Mr. Clemmons would rent him the ground at forty dollars an acre.

“I don’t know anything about raising tobacco,” he would say, “but if you want to raise it upon my land you can go on and do so, and give me your note at forty dollars an acre per annum, which people say tobacco land is worth, and pay it when you sell the crop.”

He never wore a watch in his life, although he at one time had two clocks in the house, one which was an ancient brass timepiece, probably an heirloom, but both of these were stolen many years ago and were never replaced. The sun was his timekeeper, he going to work by its rising and considering it time to quit when it had set. He never used a vehicle for travel, but came to town on horseback, he having made his last visit here several weeks ago by that method.

Only one time in all his ninety years, as far as there is any record, did Mr. Clemmons “blow himself” in an extravagant outlay of money. This was when he got married, some sixty years ago. On that occasion he not only bought himself a nice horse and new buggy, but paid fifty dollars for a set of harness, as he himself was wont to relate. But when the wedding festivities were over, the buggy was placed in the barn, never to come out again. Its leather decayed, and fell apart, its wheels rusted in idleness, and the whole vehicle, with the lapse of time, fell to pieces.

Also Mr. Clemmons, in honor of one great event of his life, purchased extravagantly of wedding garments. Complete as any dandy could have it, a broadcloth suit, a pair of fine, soft-leather boots, and even a plug hat, which was in the fashion of that day, were bought to adorn the bridegroom, but they were never worn but once.

After the marriage Mr. Clemmons said he must now go to work, and the stovepipe hat, the soft-leather boots, and the broadcloth suit were hung upon nails in the attic, and there remained until a few years ago, when a hard-up thief, who took the clocks likewise, carried off the wedding raiment.

Mr. Clemmons’ wife, who had been Miss Virginia Brock, of near Keene, in Jessamine County, died about thirteen years ago. Two of his three children had met violent deaths, but he is survived by one child, Mrs. John Larkin, wife of a farmer near South Elkhorn.

Mr. Clemmons would have been ninety years old next fall, and with the exception of his nearly fatal injuries when he was attacked by robbers in 1891, and on several occasions when he met with accidents in his work, he had never been critically ill in his life until about a year ago.

Drives Horse 62,868 Miles.

Adam Puerkle, carrier on R. F. D. Route 2, out of Stuttgart, Ark., has a horse that he began driving on the route March 9, 1903, and since that date he has had this horse in constant use, a portion of the time making daily trips and the rest of the time making three trips a week.

He has made a total mileage of 62,868 in the mail service with this horse, and is still using him three trips per week, with a fair prospect of several years’ more service. This horse is fifteen years old.

Cow Chews Tobacco and Dies.

When William Rogers, a farmer west of Bethany, Mo., returned home from town late the other night, in the rush of putting away his team and doing sundry chores he forgot some chewing tobacco which he had purchased, and left the package containing over two pounds on the wagon seat.

Rogers thought of his tobacco in the night, but decided that it would be safe till morning.

When he appeared in the barnyard next morning, he was surprised to see one of his best milch cows standing by the wagon, diligently chewing. An investigation showed that she had devoured nearly all of the tobacco. The cow showed symptoms of illness immediately, and a veterinarian was summoned, but the animal died the next day.

His Heart Sewn Up, Patient Recovers.

A remarkable operation, involving the sewing up of a wound in a man’s heart, was performed successfully recently at the Beth Israel Hospital, Monroe and Jefferson Streets, New York City. The injured man, Israel Ziff, of 238 East 105th Street, is well on the way to recovery, and probably will be out of the hospital in a few days.

Ziff operates a pushcart in Monroe Street, near the hospital, selling slices of coconut to passers-by. He is in the habit of slicing the coconut himself with a knife, more than a foot long, whose wide blade tapers down to a sharp point.

Several months ago Ziff cut himself badly while cutting up his wares, and his wife and children begged him to give up his occupation and find some other method of earning a living. He tried to do it, but he could find nothing else. His pushcart was well known in the neighborhood, and his business was good; so he was compelled to keep at it.

Business was brisk one night, and the coconuts were going fast. Ziff had to cut up new ones from time to time, and every few minutes found him bending over with his knife at work. Presently the thing he had always feared happened; his knife slipped and cut through the left breast, a deep wound.

Ziff knew he was badly hurt. So he straightened up, laid down his knife, and started for the Beth Israel Hospital, about a block and a half away. How he got there continues to be a mystery to the surgeons, but he did get there. He walked into the office in Jefferson Street, near Cherry Street, looking as if nothing much matter.

Doctor George Levy, who received him, saw that his injuries were serious, and notified Doctor Alfred A. Schwartz, the house surgeon. Doctor Schwartz’s examination disclosed a wound at least an inch and a half long at the outer surface and going far down in.

Doctor Schwartz called up Doctor Charles Goodman, of 969 Madison Avenue, the attending surgeon, and told him that he was badly needed at once. Doctor Simon D. Ehrlich, the hospital’s anæsthetist, also was notified, and Ziff was carried to the operating room. Here Doctor Schwartz packed the wound with gauze and stopped the flow of blood, and everything was made ready to start work when Doctor Goodman arrived.

The operating surgeon arrived in record time, and then began some quick work. The flow of blood had to be stopped in the first place, and the patient anæsthetized for the operation. But if the chest where cut open to check the hemorrhage, the lungs would have collapsed from the air pressure on the outside, so air had to be pumped in until the inflation was sufficient to resist the pressure from without.

This process was combined with the application of the anæsthetic by the method known as intertracheal anæsthesia. By means of an apparatus operated by electricity, ether was mixed in a jar with air in the proportion considered advisable, and the resultant mixture forced through a tube far down into the patient’s throat. By this means anæsthesia was produced and the air within the lungs was raised to double the normal pressure.

With the patient anæsthetized and the lungs secured against danger of collapse, Doctor Goodman cut away three ribs and a piece of the breastbone. He found the chest full of blood, and this had to be drawn off before anything more could be done. When the blood was cleared away, Doctor Goodman found that the knife had made a big cut in the pericardium and that the point had gone flown nearly three-eighths of an inch into the heart.

The most ticklish part of the operation followed—sewing up the heart while it was palpitating. One stitch was sufficient to close the wound in the heart itself, three more did the work with the pericardium. Doctor Goodman sewed the skin together over the wound, and Ziff was put away to recover. He came out of the operation as rapidly as could have been expected, and except that the protection of the ribs over the heart will be missing, he is likely to be in no way the worse for his experience.

Had the point of the knife gone a millimeter or so farther in, Ziff never would have lived to get to the hospital, as the consequent hemorrhage would have been almost instantly fatal. The hospital authorities at first supposed from the nature and depth of the wound that he had been stabbed in a fight, and it was not until a day or two ago that Ziff recovered sufficiently to tell them how he had been injured.

“The Lady of the Lighthouse.”

Beautiful Mrs. Helen S. Woodruff, of New York, who lived in darkness for two years, is now working hard for the cause of the blind. In her own time of trial she patiently learned to “see through her fingers” and wrote the story, “The Lady of the Lighthouse,” which has made her famous.

When her sight was restored by a marvelous operation, she was so grateful that she has devoted all her time and energy for the benefit of the New York Association of the Blind, which has established the original “Lighthouse” in New York.

Mrs. Woodruff is the first society woman who has acted for the “movies,” and she only consented to do this in the dramatization of her story because it would aid the cause of the blind. The photo play which illustrates her talks on the blind is to be shown all over the country, for charity.

Humorous Exploits of Old-time Editor.

For a short time immediately preceding the Civil War, Henry Faxon, who, according to William Lightfoot Vischer, was the “father of American newspaper humor,” was a special writer on the Louisville Journal. Afterward he went from Louisville to Columbia, Tenn., and was the editor there, for perhaps a year or so, of a weekly newspaper; but he really belonged to Buffalo, N. Y.

Henry Faxon, familiarly called Hank, was a man of innumerable accomplishments. He could speak many tongues. He was an excellent electrician, a brilliant musician, had a rich singing voice, and frequently delighted his company with songs that he sang to his own accompaniment on the piano. He was a fine draftsman and cartoonist, and often made pictures with his pencil that were full of fun.

In newspaper work he wrote with a humor that has never been excelled, and in a broad, exaggerated style, which was not widely appreciated in his day. Indeed, he was the originator of that class of newspaper humor, and a brilliant poet withal.

It was Faxon who caused Blondin to achieve the first great performance in rope walking that gave that artist a world-wide fame in—and on—his particular line. Faxon induced Blondin to walk across Niagara River at the falls the first time the rope walker attempted that seemingly perilous feat, which he performed so many times afterward.

Faxon was the editor of a little newspaper at Buffalo at the time under consideration—the summer of 1859. A circus had stranded in Buffalo, and with it was this Frenchman, Emile Gravelot Blondin, who came to this country in 1855. He was part owner of the broken circus. Faxon took a fancy to Blondin, or, at any rate, sympathized with him in his distress, and, after serious discussion of the proposed thrilling feat, Faxon agreed to supply the paraphernalia, at the cost of several hundred dollars, and Blondin declared he was ready to perform it, which he did for the first time on June 30, 1859, later doing that same act with a man strapped on his back, and again with a wheelbarrow, stove, and cooking utensils, with which he cooked a meal when halfway over the rope.

The thing was widely advertised; great excursions went to see it. Blondin’s fame and fortune were made.

Faxon was happiest when doing something to relieve the distress of another, and he was moreover greatly given to practical joking. These two characteristics in him produced a hoax that became famous at the time.

A little south of Buffalo is a beautiful sheet of water called Silver Lake, and it had some mysteries about it. In its center was a deep place that soundings could not measure. Its waters were cold as ice, and there were no fish or other living creatures in it. On its banks a man had built a fine hotel, hoping to make it an attractive resort, but guests were few and tribulation plenty. Bankruptcy threatened, and the landlord told his troubles to Faxon, who had run down there for a few days’ rest.

Faxon fixed up a plan to fill the hotel. Faxon went back to Buffalo and secured the services of another genius—a mechanical genius—a young German, whose only wealth was his ingenuity and a little tinsmithery. Faxon told him what he wanted. The German jumped at the idea.

He constructed a great tin or zinc monster like a sea serpent. It had an immense and fearful red mouth, from which darted a forked tongue, and its huge jaws worked like an alligator’s.

This thing was so anchored near the deepest place in the lake and was so arranged with pulleys and tiller ropes, or something of that nature, that being worked from a secret subcellar in the hotel, it could be made to dart its head and hideous length up out of the lake and lash the water with its tail until it would send big ripples to the shores.

Its movements were so rapid and eccentric that the artificiality of the thing could not be detected, and it had no regular hours for appearance, but was a sort of a go-as-you-please serpent.

Faxon wrote blazing columns in his newspapers about it. The newspapers, all over the country had many lengths of that snake in them, in word paintings and other picture. The hotel became crowded, and the landlord put up sheds and tents on his premises and filled them with guests, and he coined money, so to speak.

The monstrous serpent was a wonder and a mystery for a great many more than seven days, but at last, in a specially strenuous flop one day, the apparatus broke and that old tin serpent turned its white belly up to the sun, and the Silver Lake snake business exploded.

Meantime, the landlord had become as rich as a king and could have afforded to give the hotel away, but he used it for many years as a country seat, and looked complacently at his fortune as a monument to the wit of Hank Faxon and the credulity of mankind.

How to Live Long, Told by Eleven Men.

What is the secret of long life? Probably there is no question that has so many answers, nor such a variety of answers. But it’s still the big question. The other day eleven recipes for long lives were given at a dinner at Amarillo, Texas, held in honor of the Reverend James Cunningham, celebrating his ninetieth birthday. The guests were veterans of the Confederacy, whose ages ranged from seventy-five to eighty-one, and each told briefly of the manner of living that had enabled him to reach old age and retain good health and vigor.

In substance, the recipes provide for hard work, fresh air, outdoor living, the avoidance of trouble and worry, good humor, plenty of sleep, temperance, and the avoidance of tobacco.

“For fifty years my habits have been regular,” said Doctor Cunningham. “Before that time I was careless. Then I went outdoors and engaged in farm work. The change was marvelous, and I have exceeded the record for longevity that has appeared in other generations of the family.”

Captain W. W. Kidd has been a carpenter thirty-five years, and naturally has spent much of his time out-of-doors. Regular habits and care of his health enabled him to pass the eighty mark. “My father lived to be ninety-eight,” he said, “and one of my grandmothers to be ninety-six. While long life runs in the family, I am sure that fresh air and plenty of exercise will make a man live a long time.”

J. L. Caldwell said that for fifty years he had not lived in a plastered house, and that he attributes to that fact much responsibility for his excellent health and long life. “Before I abandoned the plastered house,” he said, “I was in poor health, and after it I had no physical complaints worth mentioning. I have had exercise sufficient to keep up circulation.”

“I have always avoided worry and courted good humor,” said J. G. Hudson.

“I attribute my long life to my service in the army as a soldier,” said A. B. Kinnebrew. “Before entering the army I was sickly and weak. The camp life and marches and excitement recuperated me, and thereafter I enjoyed good health by being careful of my habits and eating.”

“I have lived temperately, eaten coarse victuals, and slept well, and these things have much to do with a man’s health,” said J. H. Rockwell. “There is something, too, in ancestry. My father lacked but four months reaching the century mark; another ancestor lived to the age of one hundred and seven. I have traced my ancestry back three hundred years, and find that a majority of them have lived beyond the age of eighty.”

“At the age of fourteen, when I left home,” said W. J. Patton, “I made a vow to myself never to use intoxicants or gamble. I have worked out-of-doors most of the time since the war, and much of the time have slept in the open. I have always taken plenty of exercise.”

J. M. White said he had never used tobacco and had always been temperate, and he believed those two facts were largely responsible for his reaching a ripe old age.

Richard Wren’s health was poor before he entered the army, but the change made him robust and strong, and he has enjoyed good health to this day.

D. L. Britain said hard work and regular and temperate habits had caused him to grow into a stout and happy old age.

“I have never had any trouble with my neighbors, and that means a lot in the matter of health,” said Doctor W. A. Lockett.

“Early to bed and early to rise has been my motto,” said J. H. Sowder. “Added to that I have been temperate, regular in my habits, and avoided things that might injure my health.”

Brothers as Like as Two Peas.

Leslie and Hallie Woodcock are brothers, who have the entire marine corps at League Island, near Philadelphia. They are as remarkable “twins” as ever made any one gasp, and, after eight months, their officers and fellow marines of Company 17 cannot tell them apart.

Leslie and Hallie are seventeen years and twenty years old and enlisted from their home in South Carolina. At enlistment they were promised that they would never be placed in separate companies. Not long ago a disgusted captain was for assigning them to different companies. They smiled and told him of their enlistment agreement.

In reading the list of those detailed for various police duties in the mornings, the company officers merely mention the name of Woodcock. They realize that one blond young twin will report for duty. Further investigation is useless.

“I’ve done a pile of stuff for you, old boy,” said Hallie to his brother. “Remember the time——”

“I know you stole my girl about a month ago,” replied Leslie. “Thought I was solid. But she never knew the difference.”

“Maybe we haven’t got some girls up in town buffaloed,” grinned Hallie. “When we get paid we toss a coin to see who is to spend his money first. The one that wins goes uptown and sees the crowd. Our salaries aren’t fat and they don’t last forever, but when the first one of us begins to run low, the other one steps into his shoes, and then our citizen friends think that there is only one of us and that one is there with considerable dough.”

Each of the boys holds in his voice the smooth drawl of the South. One can’t tell the difference between the tones. There is something uncanny in the similarity of the two smiles. Their lips go back in exactly the same fashion and four eyes twinkle alike. They smile often, too, for to them the resemblance is life’s one grand joke. Each weighs 149 pounds; wears an eight shoe, a 14-3/4 collar, and the same size hat.

One or two of the men have discovered that one of the twins has a small piece chipped from one of his front teeth.

“That would be a hot one,” observed an old sergeant: “Who goes there—Woodcock? Halt and uncover tooth.”

Farmer Finds Hornets’ Nest.

C. E. Demurr, a farmer living near the Kansas-Oklahoma line, found a hornets’ nest on the Chickaskia River, and believing it empty, took it home for an ornament in his room.

Demurr thought nothing more of it until the next day, when he heard a buzzing sound. The hornets, which had been awakened from their stupor by the fire, left the nest and made things lively about the Demurr home for the next few hours. All efforts to dislodge the “bald heads” were unavailing until the room doors were closed and the fire permitted to burn out. The hornets became benumbed with the cold and were easily killed.

A Smart Youngster.

Two women whose husbands are members of the faculty of Oberlin College went to call on the new professor’s wife. They were shown into a room where the small daughter of the house was playing. While awaiting the appearance of their hostess, one of the ladies remarked to her friend, at the same time nodding toward the little girl. “Not very p-r-e-t-t-y, is she?” spelling the word so that the child should not understand.

Instantly, before there was time for the friend to reply, came the answer from the little girl: “No, not very p-r-e-t-t-y, but awfully s-m-a-r-t.”

The Original Rattlesnake Flag.

Pennsylvania’s State museum, at Harrisburg, has just received one of the most precious of the historic relics housed there. It is the original rattlesnake flag of the Revolutionary War, the oldest banner representing what is now the United States.

The flag was donated by the heirs of Samuel Craig, of Westmoreland County, who died six years ago. One of the forbears of the Craigs carried it in the early days of the Revolution.

Edmund S. Craig, of New Alexandria, and P. M. Hill, of Greensburg, two of the donors, took the flag to the museum. Jesse E. B. Cunningham, ex-deputy attorney general and a former Westmoreland County man, accompanied the pair and presented the relic to Thomas Lynch Montgomery, State librarian and curator of the museum. The flag is red, with the coiled rattlesnake and the “Don’t Tread on Me” warning in the center.

The Weekly 101, Most Unique Paper.

Robert R. Fitzgerald, of Lawrenceburg, Ind., is the editor of the most unique newspaper in the world—The Weekly 101. It is printed in lead pencil throughout, though the editions run from eight to twenty pages of standard newspaper size. The advertisements, illustrations, comic section—everything about the paper is hand-lettered by the editor, who prefers to hide himself behind the pseudonym of “Mooney Mingles.”

Fitzgerald is twenty years old, and started his paper more than a year ago. Two editions are turned out weekly, and, thus far, more than 170 editions have been printed. The regular editions are penciled on white print paper, but the baseball extra is generally done on paper of a better quality and known as the “green sheet.” In this supplement the baseball events of the week are briefly and ably reported.

A special edition was recently turned out to become a part of the Indiana exhibit at the Panama-Pacific Exposition. Another special number was sent to President Wilson, who congratulated the editor upon the patience and ingenuity necessary to produce such a newspaper.

The Weekly 101 is prepared during the editor’s spare hours, and these are limited, because Fitzgerald works ten hours a day in a local factory to support his mother and a family of five.

The ambitious young man is anxious to own a real newspaper plant, because, as he complains, the press he now uses frequently breaks down through an attack of writer’s cramp.

Those who have received sample pages of the pencil editor’s work say that the young man seems to be competent to take his place among the live editors of to-day. Lawrenceburg is already proud of his remarkable and unique weekly, but the thriving little city will probably be doubly proud when the young editor launches forth into the regular channels of newspaper work.

The following paragraph is from one of the sample sheets submitted by our correspondent:

“The 101 Weekly newspaper will be just one year old next week. Mooney Mingles, the little editor, has planned to put out a big special edition on that day. During this whole year Mooney has not, like hundreds—yes, like thousands—of other boys, wasted his time, but during all of his spare moments has published just 160 of these copies, all printed by hand. The young editor has sent copies of this penciled newspaper to the exposition at San Francisco, Cal., to Chicago, New York, Indianapolis, Kansas City, Detroit, London, England, and many other large cities, and figures that it has been seen by 10,000,000 people.”