Miscellany: Rooster

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"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.