Hound

Henry J. Fisher, estate-owner of Greenwich, Conn., is fond of peace and quiet. One morning last week, his morning slumbers were rudely disturbed at six o'clock by the baying of a full-throated foxhound in the grounds hard by the house. Disgruntled, too angry for mere words, sleepy Henry J. Fisher did what any one else might, or might not, have done. He seized a shotgun, drew a sportsman's aim, blew the hound's life out.

To Farmer Fred Burdsall, the hound's owner, Sportsman Fisher then explained that dogs were a nuisance yelping at six o'clock in the morning. Farmer Burdsall marvelled to hear this, for Sportsman Fisher, as a member of the Fairfield and Westchester County Hounds, must often have arisen as early as six o'clock to chase foxes in his fine red coat behind a whole pack of hounds baying past the sleepy neighbors' windows. Sportsman Fisher offered Farmer Burdsall $200 damages for the dead hound. Farmer Burdsall declined.

Sportsman Fisher reminded Farmer Burdsall of his emphatic "No Trespassing" signs. Farmer Burdsall replied that his hound could not read.

Pups

Albert Mazarak, callous Jersey City dweller, spaded recently in his back yard beneath a neighbor's inquiring eye.

"Whatcha diggin' fur?"

"I'm buryin'."

"Whatcha buryin'?"

"Pups!"

A litter of four squirming puppies whimpered at the bottom of a pail which Mr. Mazarak tilted carelessly, spilling them into the hole. Whistling, he scraped and shoveled loose earth upon them, tamped it well.

The neighbor, knowing well Pup-buryer Mazarak's mettle, ventured no objection, telephoned the S. P. C. A. A stalwart policeman came. Frenzied digging by Mr. Mazarak resulted in the exhumation of one pup who still whimpered.

Horse

Near Kansas City, Misaji Kawahara, truck gardener, tethered his horse to a tree as a storm approached, sought shelter for himself indoors. Lightning stabbed across the sky. Thunder dinned madness into the frightened horse. Rearing, plunging, it drew the tether rope ever tighter, choked to death as the halter contracted like a hangman's noose. . . .

Misaji Kawahara came and saw. Misaji had loved the poor horse well. Loosening the halter he tied its free end to a branch twelve feet from the ground, slipped the noose about his own neck, slid off the branch to tend his horse in another world.

Lord

Newsgatherers last week discovered that a recent U. S. arrival, one Vivian Burnett, son of Authoress Frances Hodgson Burnett, who with fond motherliness had idealized him in her novel, was the original model for the lacy-collared, golden-curled Lord Fauntleroy, who rankled little boys of another generation. His metamorphosis gave the reporters opportunity to contrast his bald pate to the departed curls; his tall height to the coquettish figure of the book. Vivian himself whimpered, "No matter where I go or what I do, there is always the reference to the fact that I was the germ of the Fauntlerpy story. ... It wasn't I--" his voice broke. "I wasn't like that. . . ."

Teeth

Perennial Hearst Columnist Arthur Brisbane touted last week an honor conferred upon himself by the late famed fisticuffer, Robert ("Lanky Bob") Fitzsimmons.

Mr. Fitzsimmons deigned in fact to open his mouth and reveal to Columnist Brisbane his diamond-set wisdom teeth.

At Chicago Mrs. Fitzsimmons, a now destitute professional evangelist, sought unsuccessfully last week a permit to exhume her husband, to remove both the diamonds and their platinum settings.