Prince

At Menominee, Mich., one Prince, 35-pound collie, heard his master, Farmer Methad Dvoracek, screaming in the barn; bounded in, flung himself at a 1,500-pound bull which had Farmer Dvoracek cornered, prostrate and already gored; seized the bull's nose, hung on while being flailed about until a chunk of nose and the bull's ring tore away, leaped for another grip, drove the bull outdoors bellowing, bounded to the kitchen door, barked, led help to Farmer Dvoracek.

Tom

At Battle Creek, Mich., the large Angora tomcat of a Mrs. F. C. Philo eyed a man who entered the Philo home as a metre-reader, saw the man seize Mrs. Philo and bear her to the floor, leaped upon the intruder, bit, clawed, screeched, spat, drove him from the house.

Chow

At Fair Lawn, N. J., the chow dog of a Mrs. Robert Schurer, having bitten her before, fell upon her in the kitchen when she was alone, floored her, bit and worried her until she was unconscious, fled through the house when Mr. Schurer brought a policeman, expired of bullet-wounds in the coal bin.

Riccio

In Brooklyn, the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals demanded the arrest of Louis Riccio, 52, for biting dogs. Mr. Riccio admitted his malefaction. He had bitten the tails off his six puppies to improve them.

Wolf

At Belleville, Ill., one Sidney Goring, 15, heard his father's farm dogs fighting in a ravine beside the house, ran to see, ran back for his father's shotgun, blazed both barrels, slew a large grey wolf.

Rabbits

In northeastern Colorado, men armed themselves with clubs, flocked to Fort Morgan, ranged in a wide-flung line over the prairie, herded 2,000 wild rabbits--pestilential to crops--into a wire enclosure, waded among them, slew all, eagerly looked forward to another field day the "mammoth bunny slaughter of the Denver Post Brush Civic Club, occasion for an annual holiday in northeastern Colorado.

Raccoon

Near Peebles, Ohio, one Perry Stansberry, weary after a raccoon hunt, slumped down beside his fireplace, filled his corncob pipe with loose tobacco from his pocket, lit, puffed, ruminated, fell back bruised and stunned by the explosion in his pipe-bowl of a .22-calibre rifle cartridge.

Super-Peer

At Arnheim, Holland, Aeneas Alexander Mackay, 13th Baron Reay, Chief of the Scottish Clan of Mackay, self-exiled in the Netherlands because of a feud between his ancestors and Charles (1600-1649), summoned his relatives to celebrate his "coming of age." Proud, they beheld him stand before them, 6 ft., 9 in. in his stockings, "the tallest peer."

Six Leggers

In River Rouge, Mich., six bootleggers walked into the office of a Christmas charity committee. Each laid $100 on the table. They said they wanted to buy shoes and rubbers for every child in town that needed them. They said the wanted local ministers to make out a list of the poor children. The ministers hemmed, hawed, spoke of "taints" and "contraband." Only one minister flatly agreed.

On the Beach

The thing under the tarpaulin was still alive. Clamdiggers found it there, on the lonely California beach, a malodorous bundle of bone and gristle, patched with scant hair, hollowed, salt-whitened, stark, ragged and warm. The thing opened its eyes, an old man's voice spoke out of its lips.

He was Eli B. Kelly, he said, 69, by trade a fisherman. He told about the storm that carried away the mainsail of his yawl, the giant seas that stopped the auxiliary engine. Mr. Kelly and his partner, James McKinley, 63, were left alone there with the ocean. They had food enough for 24 hours. On the third day McKinley began to see headlands where no headlands were. For a while Kelly rowed toward these shores to humor McKinley; then he felt too weak to row any more. McKinley came for him with a bait knife; the two old men, as weak as half-created things, fought on the tilting deck in the waste of the world. Kelly won. He tied McKinley in the stern. Three times McKinley rolled over the gunwale to swim to the sickle sands that beckoned in his head. Three times Fisherman Kelly pulled him out of the water. When McKinley died of exhaustion the food was all gone. . . . That was on the fourth day. A week later Kelly sighted the island of Santa Catalina and, pulling his tarpaulin after him, crawled out on the beach.

The thing sputtered and rambled when he came to this part of his story. "Died of exhaustion ... in times like that a man . . . had to, I had to, I tell you. . . ." His listeners did not know what he meant until, a little later, the wreck of the yawl was found and, in the stern sheet still bound with batten-line, the half-eaten body of James McKinley.

Gaffer

In Paris, one Gilbert Nicolas Leclerc, peasant of Limoges, France, old, bearded, pious, hobbled last week into the Moulin Rouge, internationally famed revue and dance hall, immemorial haunt of tourists and demimondaines. M. Leclerc did not hobble in, as do so many gaffers, to pluck a lily of the field. He came seeking his daughter, Jeanne, who had run away to Paris from tedious Limoges. M. Leclerc found his petite Jeanne and begged her to come home. She refused. "I cannot survive your dishonor," he said. Drawing a revolver he shot himself through the heart.

Revivalist

From Flagpond, Tenn., one Rev. George Bennett, revivalist, started home from a revival, full of grace. At him, out of darkness, strode a menacing figure, armed with a pistol, a pint flask. "Ah reckon," said the highwayman, "that yo'd bettuh drink down dis yere drap o' White Mule." "But I never drink," murmured the Rev. Mr. Bennett, elevating his arms. "Do you not know, my good friend, that-- "Ah wasn't inquirin' abaout yo' pussenal habits, Mister Preacher-man. Ah was jest a-tellin' yo' dat dis yere White Mule's a-goin' ter do yo' a right smart o' good." With the pistol burrowing into his ribs, the Rev. George Bennett raised the flask, bubbling, gasping, choking with fury. "Oh Lord, Thou seest that I have no choice--harrumph! Arggh!--in this--Klohchch!--iniquitous procedure. Smite, O Lord, thine enemies --Graowchch! Ugh! Urgle-urgle-phew!" The Rev. Mr. Bennett seethed with anger, staggered. The highwayman was not content until the flask was nearly empty. . . . Such, at least, was the story told by the Rev. George Bennett when he stumbled, angry and shy $10, into his home at Erwin, Tenn., very late one night last week.