Rooster

"TIME brings all things"

Rooster In Washington, D. C., a rooster kicked a blacksmith in the kneecap with his spur, causing paralysis.

Chicken In Chicago, a policemen, one Sergeant Krai, bought a dozen fresh eggs for his wife, negligently left them in his locker at the police station. Two days later detectives heard strange sounds--cacklings, scratchings, cries of "Cheep, cheep" --from the squad room. The Sergeant's room was full of chicken.

Rabbit In Bedford, Eng., died one William Rabbit, for 59 years a gardener. "Don't put any flowers on my grave" directed his will, "I've seen enough of them. . . ."

Poem A boy sat on the Yachtsmen's Wharf at Atlantic City last Thursday, complacently fishing. Beside him dozed his necessary adjunct, a tawny, nondescript dog. The John Greenleaf Whittier poem was complete; bare feet, red hair, freckles; attired in a cotton shirt and overalls. Occasionally a promising dip of his long fishpole caused his eyes to sparkle momentarily; occasionally an intrepid fly was rewarded with an energetic slap. . . . Occasionallv, too, he shot a glance of stern disapproval across the wharf, where the Courtney children--Martha, four, and Jane, six--romped carelessly. Suddenly, simultaneous shrieks rent the air, mingling with the splash of water. Two struggling figures swept beneath the projecting fishpole. The boy jumped. Seizing one girl by the hair, setting his teeth into the dress of the other, he floated both until help came in the form of a rowboat. When the distracted Courtneys had assured themselves of their daughter's safety, they turned, grateful, then dismayed. . . . Far down the beach they saw the long fishpole, the dog and the dripping boy. At their hails, he broke into a run, disappeared.

Largesse In the Prince of Wales suite on board the Cunarder Berengaria, Sanders A. Wertheim, president of Burns Brothers, coal dealers, heard the stewards bawling: "All ashore that's going ashore." His cabin, the most expensive space the Cunard line can sell on any of its ships, was littered with candy, flowers, books, tokens of goodwill left by the employes who had come down to see him off. Now these employes were hurrying down the gangplank. Sanders Wertheim could see them beaming at him, packed inside a rope on the pier. Ah, for a gesture, a gesture proper for the farewell of a man who traveled in the Prince of Wales' suite, a man who had risen to the top. Sanders Wertheim fumbled in his pocket, produced a five dollar goldpiece, flung it onto the pier. His employes, heads of departments, white collar men, scrambled for it. Sanders Wertheim threw another. Again a scramble. The ship was sidling from the pier. Until the gap of brown water grew too wide, he continued to throw silver, gold, the employes continued to scratch each other, punch, prod, and squirm to pick up his largesse.

Ocean At the foot of 23rd Street, Coney Island, at seven o'clock one evening, surly breakers crowded over Morris Ravmitzky, 17. The undertow pressed its oily brine down into his lungs, dragged his body out for the depth crabs to fumble over. For three days and nights the boy's mother paced the beach, heedless of sprawling crowds that bathed, babbled and ebbed home to rest. She watched the grim ocean, lamenting. At seven o'clock of the third evening, Mrs. Ravmitzky stood at the foot of 21st Street, still muttering her lament. Occasionally a barrel stave or water-logged tomato was carried to her feet by the surf. In the lift of one wave she thought she saw her son, lying on his side with arms beseeching; but the vision passed as the wave fell in a dull smother. The next wave was empty. Mrs. Ravmitzky watched its cruel curve and pounding explosion, when, in the hissing sheet of dirty foam that moved toward her, she saw her son again, face down this time, legs askew, as if he were sleeping. The foam sucked back. The apparition lay on the wet shingle. Mrs. Ravmitzky, dazed, saw that its bleached flesh was real, its grey face her son's own. She fainted.

Bananas In Perth Amboy, N. J., Michael Patonick, 11, unfastidious son of a local junk dealer, found 15 unripe bananas in a city dump, ate all of them, fell over unconscious.

Pipe In Stewart Landing, B. C., one Teeta-Wakee, 107-year old squaw, was accosted by a peddler. Rolling her rheumy eyes in coy alarm, she listened while the man attempted to persuade her that she needed a new pipe. When he fell silent she produced from her bosom a wooden object, notched, smoke-blackened, evil, stuffed it with tobacco, applied a match, puffed miasma into the peddler's face. She had smoked this pipe, she declared, for 65 years.

Gun One L. Green, guest of the LaSalle hotel in Chicago, lolled on the seat of a taxicab, very drunk. The cab stopped at his destination, the chauffeur opened the door politely, found himself staring into the unsteady muzzle of a revolver. Mr. Green exhibited a certain tipsy truculence in regard to the charges. Said the driver, smiling: "Be reasonable. Give me the gun in payment of the fare." To the somewhat fuddled brain of Mr. Green, the suggestion appeared timely, just. . . . He complied. Later, Mr. Green slept in the police station.

Jinx One Lester Price, 23, ambled through Philadelphia's narrow streets. He was hungry, tired, and just after passing a cathedral's steps he noted a door open in a nearby residence. He entered, slept, awoke hours later, beheld a safe the lock of which opened readily. He beheld cash, bonds, ecclesiastical jewelry, a chalice and a golden, diamond-studded cross belonging to the owner of the residence, Cardinal Dougherty. Lester took the jewelry, cash, bonds, valued at $4,000--left the chalice and cross worth over $25,000. "I knew they would jinx me," he said when caught, jailed and asked why he had stolen so sparingly.