The husband of a certain Nashville lady was, before his marriage, a furious swearer. Through his wife’s influence he left off his bad habit except one favorite cuss word, which clung to him under all circumstances, and which to the annoyance of his good wife, he would unconsciously use everywhere—the word “damn.” Several months since, he arose one cold morning, before the servant came in to make the wood fire, and after a long effort and fruitless burning of many matches, turned and said, “Sallie, this damn fire won’t burn.” To this the good wife earnestly said, “Yes, the damn wood is too green, and the damn servant has forgotten to bring up and damn kindling wood to start the damn fire with.” He looked at his wife in absolute dismay, but at once saw the point and said nothing. A longer period than usual passed without the favorite expletive being used, but later on he wanted a basket and said after looking for it, “Sallie, where has the damn basket got to?” The wife quietly, as if putting a child to sleep, said: “Ask the damn cook to get the damn basket—damn her, she keeps it.” As before he said nothing, but months have passed, and if he damns anything it is not where she is. She says it was like taking quinine, and she always went and washed out her mouth afterwards, but he is cured.

Tincture of lobelia diluted with water, sweet spirits of nitre, or a weak solution of carbonic acid, are remedies for ivy poison. Bathe the parts affected with either of the above. An excellent remedy is to apply to the parts affected, with a camels hair brush, the fl. ex. belladonna. The patient should always be treated immediately, as the poison very frequently keeps spreading until it covers the entire body.

"Troubled with indigestion, are you? Feel all puffed up, eh? Well, it's a pity that some one couldn't treat you the way my brother-in-law's wife treated her chickens. That was when they lived out in Lewistown, Pa."

"Going to tell us another story now, I suppose, like those about catching herring in the grass and hunting shad with a dog and gun, ain't you?"

Without paying any attention to this slight remark the Jerseyman went on:

"My brother-in-law's wife had a fine crop of chickens that summer. They were all hatched that spring and were growing well when one day the whole flock got at a bag of dry cornmeal and filled their crops full of it. The first thing my brother-in-law's wife knew of this was when the meal began to swell and turn sour, and the whole troop of chickens were waddling around with crops twice their regular size and every chicken looking like the bass drummer in a German band. You see, the chickens either had got at water too soon or else didn't have the gravel enough in their crops to grind up the meal, and it wouldn't digest and seemed likely to burst them.

"There was no one by to give help or advice, and my brother-in-law's wife wasn't going to lose that lot of more than 100 fine chickens if she could help it, so she started right in to the best she could. The children caught the chickens and brought them to her, and with her buttonhole scissors she cut a slit in each one of their crops. She squeezed out the cornmeal, washed their crops out and sewed them up again. The chickens seemed grateful. They were kept quite for a couple of days, fed lightly, and every one of them recovered."—New York Sun

A well known doctor of Minneapolis who has made a specialty of nervous diseases has found a new remedy for the "blues." As no drugs are administered, he has felt safe in experimenting with at least a half hundred melancholy patients and now declares himself thoroughly satisfied wit the good results of his treatment. His prescription reads something like this: If you keep the corners of your mouth turned up, you can't feel blue." The directions for taking are, "Smile, keep on smiling, don't stop smiling." It sounds ridiculous, doesn't it? Well, just try turning up the corners of your mouth, regardless of your mood, and see how it makes you feel. Then draw the corners of your mouth down and note the effect, and you will be willing to declare "there's something to it."

The doctor treats his nervous patients to medicine when necessary, but when the case is one of pure melancholy, without bodily ill, he simply recommends the smile cure. He has the patient remain in his office and smile. If it isn't the genuine article, it must at least be an upward curvature of the corners of the mouth, and the better feelings follow inevitably. The treatments are followed up regularly, and the patients all testify to their good effect. It takes considerable persuasion to induce some of them to apply the cure, and of course the greater number of patients are women, for he na man is blue he is bound to be blue in spite of everything, but a woman is more easily persuaded to try to find a cure.

The doctor declares that if persons will only draw down the corners of their mouths and use sufficient will power they can actually shed tears. On the other hand, if they will persistently keep the corners of the mouth turned up pleasant thoughts will chase away the gloomy forebodings. His discovery grew out of an experience in his own home. His wife was of a nervous and rather morbid temperament, and when in a despondent mood he would ask her to "smile a little" until the saying came to be a household joke. but it brought about good results, and then came the inspiration to try the same cure on others.

The doctor has not patented his remedy, and it is free to all who choose to take advantage of it.—Minneapolis Journal

Charles Johnson, a negro, though of Swedish nomenclature, had been arrested for highway robbery out on Independence avenue. A toy pistol, which had served hiim in "making a bluff," and a handful of small coin were taken from him. He was then ushered before the captain for the usual catechism.

"Let's see, what were in for the last time, Charley?"

"Never done bean heah befo', boss."

"Oh, come now, Charley; you've been here a dozen times before."

"May de good Lawd 'nilate me, boss, I'ze tellin yuh de troof!"

"Well, take him and lock him up."

"Hol on der, cap'n, ain't yuh gwine ter let me hab my money?"

"Well, I guess not," said the captain, winking at the lieutenant. "This is my rakeoff. Do you suppose I can stay here for nothing?"

"But yuh'll let me hab it in de mawnin, won't yuh?"

"No, sir."

"Not aftah the jedge gits t'rough wid me?"

"No."

"Say, yuh can't fool me dat a-way, boss. I'ze been heah befo'!"

Then the old darky was taken down stairs, wondering what everybody was laughing about.—Kansas City Times

"There is nothing so irritable to a cough as a cough." Constant coughing is precisely like scratching a wound on the outside of the body. So long as it is continued the wound will not heal. Let a person, when attempted to cough, draw a long breath and hold it until it warms and soothes every air cell, and benefit will soon be received from this process. The explanation simply is, the nitrogen which is thus refined acts as an anodyne ot the mucous membrane, allaying the desire to cough and giving the throat and lungs a chance to heal.—Family Magazine

Twenty five years ago football was a healthy, harmless outdoor sport. School boys played it with perfect impunity. It required adroitness, skill and strength. And there is more or less scrapping about it. To put a dozen or more young fellows to wrestling and slugging promiscuously in a field, and when one of them has a rib or collar bone broken or another is killed, to say that it was an accident is putting a considerable strain upon the elasticity of the language. it is about the same kind of an accident that happens to the man who is wounded or killed in a duel, or is shot on the field of battle.

We have heard of games of football where one team, composed of strapping fellows, went in deliberately to slug their weaker antagonists. We know that several young men are killed every season in this game, and and that hundreds of them are injured in one way or another, some for life. Collar bones and ribs are broken, eyes are sometimes put out, and faces badly disfigured. So far this season, we have observed that three players were fatally injured, and there were probably more. As many as twenty-two deaths were reported one year form this cause.

It is doubtless true that where the players are thoroughly trained and fit, they are not likely to be killed. but none the less is football an exceedingly dangerous game. The facts cannot be brushed aside with an airy wave of the hand. A game in which any young mane is liable, as a result of the game itself, to be disfigured or even killed, is not the kind of sport that ought to be played in this way, or forbidden by the law.—Memphis Commercial Appeal