A queer looking old man, carrying a large basket in one hand and a cane in the other hand, can be seen any day plodding along the German section of the East Side, where he has become a well-known figure. He travels from one saloon to another, selling "salt sticks," which is his means of livelihood. For nearly twenty-five years he has been a conspicuous figure on the East Side, and from the profits derived from selling these "salt sticks" he has been enabled to support a large family. He does a good business because of his genial nature. He always has a kind word for everybody.

This industry of making "salt sticks" is practiced by but a few bakers, who dispose of them to these merchants cheap, and who in turn sell them for 2c a piece, or three for 5c. While the "salt sticks" or salzstange, as the Germans call it, is unknown in the American cafe, it is, and has been for a number of years, quite the thing with the German saloons. There was at one time quite a number of these "salt stick" merchants, but of late they have dwindled down to a few, among them being the old man who was one of the first in the field. The "salt stick" is a long piece of baked dough besprinkled with salt, which, while it makes it very tasty, also makes them very thirsty, thus benefiting the saloon-keeper, whose customers are compelled to satisfy their thirst with more beer. But this does not serve to lessen the popularity of the "salt sticks." German pinochle players while playing their game and drinking their beer, eat them with a relish. No game of cards is complete without them.

They form a very tasty morsel when eaten with a piece of cheese. For this purpose they are cut in half and the cheese placed between them. They are called "salt stick sandwiches," and they are a great appetizer for beer.

To the Editor: Please find enclosed one dollar to pay my subscription to The News, and also to give more force to what I wish to say. I had often heard that editors were inclined to stretch the truth, but was never so much convinced of the fact as when I read an article in The News of the 15th inst., claiming that I had or was supposed to have staid up all night praying for rain. Now while I have much faith in prayer and may often be guilty of seeking knowledge for myself or others through prayer, yet I would say that as to the weather, I believe the powers that create the weather and all things affected by it, is able to mange the same, and that is my privilege and duty to take the weather as it comes and make the best of it. I will admit of having said that a heavy cloud seemed to be coming my way one evening and that I told my wife as she retired, that I guessed that I would sit up until it rained, and that the next morning I congratulated myself for not having done so. Hoping that you will correct the error, I remain, Your respectfully,
J. A. Sampson.

Dr. J. W. Craig, of Churchville, in conversation with a representative of the Rochester Union, gave the following account of a case within his own experience which is somewhat similar to that of Dr. Bothwell, in whose lung a cork lodged, causing his death. Some five or six years ago a man was employed tearing down an old wooden building in North Bergen. While he worked on an upper portion of the structure, his son, a boy of eight or nine years, with eyes and mouth wide open, gazed up at him. A rusty nail drawn from the wood slipped from the hammer’s claw, and, descending, entered between the open jaws of the boy and lodged in the left lung, as nearly as possible occupying the same position as the cork in the left bronchus of the lamented Rev. Dr. Bothwell. Physicians attended the victim of the accident, but he did not succeed in removing the obstacle. The boy’s general health remained good, but he was troubled considerably by severe fits of coughing. In one of those about two years after the nail had disappeared it was dislodged and forced from the boy’s mouth. The boy is at present strong and well, and has never apparently sustained any injury from his extraordinary adventure. He is now living in Churchville, this country.

M. de Candolie, a French investigator has come to the conclusion from his researches that women have a larger proportion of brown eyes than men. He also finds that where both parents have eyes of a like color the chances are eighty-eight to twelve that their children, when they arrive at the age of 10 (when the color of the eyes is fixed), will have eyes of the same color. When the parents have eyes of different colors the chances are fifty-five to forty-five in favor of brown as against blue or gray eyes in the children. He is also of the opinion that the health of the brunette type is, as a rule, superior to that of the blonde.

"Say," said the main with a worried look, "do you remember giving me a lot of advice on how to conduct my own love affairs about two months ago?"

"Yes," replied the man with the wise expression, relates the Baltimore American.

"Told me if I wanted to win the girl I should make love to her mother?"

"Uh—huh."

"Said if I could get the old lady on my side all I had to do was to toddle around with a ring and say: 'When?' to the girl."

The wise man nodded.

"Said for me to compliment the mother on her youthful appearance," continued the worried man, "and give her a jolly about how sad I was that the young ladies of the present were not to be compared with those of the past?"

"Yes. Yes. You won the girl, I suppose?"

"Yes, I did—not. The old lady has sued her husband for divorce and me for breach of promise."

A plucky and independent girl is Miss Elizabeth More of Edgeworth, Pa.. Wither her own hands she recently built a neat little cottage, laying the foundation, plastering the walls of the different rooms and performing all the carpenter work to a builder's taste. To do this she found it necessary to don male attire, and a young girl friend helped her over the hardest part of the work. Miss More is said to be as pretty as she is energetic. She was once a protegee of Jane Swisshelm, and the lessons that stern champion of woman's rights taught her have apparently not been forgotten.

My wife came to see me, but she did not try to have me released. I demanded a trial, but no lawyer would defend me. Then I realized that the whole community was against me. I became so wroth that my anger seemed to hang over me like a dark cloud. It pressed me to the floor and held me there. Men came after a long time and took me away. I thought, to another prison. One day a cat came in to my cell, and I tried to bite her. She made the hair fly, but I killed her.

I don't know how long I remained, here, but one morning the sun rose and shone it at me thought the window. It seemed to be the first time that I had seen the great luminary for months. A mist cleared from before my eyes. My brain began to work and suddenly I realized that I had been insane.

I called the keeper, and when he saw me he exclaimed: "Thank heaven!" and grasped my hand. I was not long in putting on another suit of clothes and turning my face toward home. My wife fainted when she saw me and learned that I had recovered my mind. I asked for my little children, and two big boys and a young lady came forward and greeted me. I had been in an asylum twelve years.—Pearson's Weekly.