It is claimed by a recent writer that there is a turning point in the love of a wife for a husband which should be carefully watched. In some it occurs early, long before 30, especially if the match were one of impulse or family convenience; but in the majority of instances its appearance manifests itself about the approach to the middle age of woman from 35 to 42. There is a revulsion in the whole moral and mental being—a kind of chilling, cold indifference, which the slightest unkindness on the part of the husband at once kindles into a flame. It is difficult to account for this transitory condition, but there is much proof that a woman loves twice.

Of all the queer, unexplainable hobbies for a man to possess Benjamin F. Davenport, a New York advertising man, has one which outranks that of every competitor. Davenport is a collector, not of historical relics or postage stamps or walking sticks or pipes or rare china, but of towels, and hotel towels at that. He has been at it a dozen years and he has a collection which represents a principal hotel in every city in the United States and Mexico. Some of the towels are linen and some are cotton and many are ragged. They vary in size from a napkin to a table cloth. The smallest one comes from a hotel in Vermont, where the guests go to the pump on frosty mornings and fill their own pitchers, and the largest—a Turkish towel—is from a Minneapolis palace. It would do at a pinch for a bathrobe. The most ragged bit was the property of a Memphis hostelry. It would make a good necklace, because there is nothing left to it but the selvedge. Davenport has his collection carefully ticketed, and on each tab are a few words, which are reminders of some particular incident connected with the hotel or town, or with the obtaining of the towel itself.

"I get the best way I can," explained the man with the outlandish hobby to a writer for the Mail and Express, "and I don't mind telling you that at least 25 per cent of my collection has been secured without asking anybody's permission. The intrinsic value is so small that it isn't worth while. If a towel appears to be an expensive one I always speak to the landlord about it and pay him, if necessary. I have towels from Key West up to Manitoba; from Portland, Me., to San Diego, Cal., and from every hotel which has a history. I do this for my own amusement and because I don't believe it has ever been done before by any man in the world. Anybody can and most persons do collect umbrellas or buttons or newspapers, but who ever heard of a towel collector before? I tell you, my boy, there's nothing like being unique, even if a hotel-keeper gets after you occasionally with a club."

A young society woman from Philadelphia underwent a painful operation Tuesday at the hands of Dr. L. F. Pitkin, 127 West Forty-second street, to remedy a pair of ears which she thought were not shapely enough. In reality they were not at all unusual either in size or design, but the young woman thought they stood out too much from her head.

She sat in the chair yesterday afternoon, and with the exception of a few spasmodic little screams submitted to the painful operation without flinching. Dr. Pitkin made a long incision in the back part of each ear and cut out a V shaped piece of membrane. Then he sewed up the wound and drew the ear back close to the head. When one ear had been fixed up, the young woman looked in the mirror and seemed to think the improvement very slight, but the surgeon assured her that it was greatly improved, and when both had been treated she thought they looked much better. The doctor said he had treated another woman similarly the day before.—New York World

The majority of us do well to write legibly with either of our hands, but when a man is found who can write with both hands simultaneously, and more than that—when he can write forward with one hand and backward with the other, it is evident that he has a perfect right to the title of "Mystery Man." Hayward Thompson, an ex-service man in Denver, Colo., is just such a man. Due to a severe injury to his head, received during the war, he has what is known as a "double brain." One side of his brain directs the writing of one hand while the other side governs the other hand.

Thompson's memory reaches back only to the time when he left a hospital some months ago. He remembers nothing of his life before that time. It was through the veterans' bureau that he established his identity as Hayward Thompson. Of his family, former friends, his work and home before the war and his activities during the war, he has been able to learn nothing. The veterans' bureau and the Colorado department of the American Legion have been making every effort to help Thompson learn of his past.

A group of railway postal clerks just in from a run stood in the transfer office at the Pennsylvania station waiting for the cable car to start up in order to get home.

"Tell you, felt a bit scary on this trip," observed one of the men as he knocked the ashes from his pipe and glanced at the clock.

"What was the matter, inspector on the car?" asked one. "Flat wheel?" queried another.

"Worse than that. Forgot my red. Left it in the office. First time in six months."

"Where did you get yours?" asked the tall man with the sandy beard.

"I've had it a long time. Cub gave it to me, and he got it from the 'Fat Nancy' wreck," was the reply.

Just then the whir of the cable became audible in the clear morning air, and the mail slingers made a run for the avenue.

"What's a red?" was asked of a clerk who was still lounging in the room.

For reply he opened his valise and drew out a dingy red mail sack. It was a plain canvas pouch, such as is used for mail matter of the lower classes, and, save for the color, did not differ from any one of the hundred thousand or so that the government owns.

"Once in awhile we have a little smashup, you know," he said, "and occasionally some of the boys get hurt, or worse. Our cars are pretty dangerous places in the event of an accident, and, if there is any damage, why, it's usually felt most in the mail or express car. It isn't often that they are serious, but now and then one of the boys gets smashed, and then there is naturally some blood around, and it gets on the mail sacks. In the old days the government very considerately used to put such sacks out of use, for you can't get the stain out. Then some genius conceived the notion of dyeing them red, but that only served to mark them.

"Every business has its superstitions," he continued, "and I guess we are no exception, for some of us have an idea that it is lucky to have a red in the car. I don't know why, I'm sure, unless it is on the principle that the same sack will not be in two bad accidents. So when it comes our way we freeze on to it and try to keep it handy.

"Of course," he continued rather shamefacedly, "it seems like a queer kind of feeling to have a reminder of that sort around, but it's all in the way you look at it, and there are lots of things just as foolish that other people do."—Washington News

A gown that is to be worn in climbing and tramping about the mountains, has a bell-shaped skirt of blue serge. Over this is worn a bright red-and-white striped waistcoat closed with the small pearl bullet buttons. Then, the jacket is of serge like the gown, lined throughout with red satin, and having its collar and cuffs of dark-blue velvet. The hat is a soft felt one of dark blue, something like the beef-eater shape, and has a high bow of scarlet standing up just in front. The parasol is also of scarlet. The woman who wears this looks marvelously well just where she is, among the mountains. But it must be remembered that such a costume would be extremely out of place anywhere else.—Mrs. Mallon, in The Ladies Home Journal.

Much of the best energy in the world is wasted on living in the past or dreaming of the future. Some people seem to think any time but the present is a good time to live in. But the men who move the world must be part of it. They must touch the life that now is, and feel the thrill of the movement of civilization.

Many people do not live in the present. It does not know them. They are buried in books; they live in archives, and in history, but the great throbbing pulse of the world they do not touch. They are not part of the world; they are never attuned to it.

The young man who would win must plunge into the current of events. He must keep step with the march of progress, or he will soon be in the rear. The current of the times must run through his veins, or there will be paralysis somewhere in his nature.—Success.