Poor Mojo's Newswire

"Man, Lord A.," my occasional lab assistant, Rob, said unto me, as he leaned against my tank and observed the very finely printed announcement affixed thereon. "There is, like, something really wrong about this birth announcement, but, like, I cannot put my finger on it." "TO WHAT ARE YOU REFERRING, ROB? I HAVE OBSERVED ALL APPROPRIATE CONVENTIONS AS THEY ARE KNOWN TO ME. THE PAPER, SHE IS MADE FROM THE FIBERS OF THE COTTON PLANT, THE PRINTING WAS ACCOMPLISHED WITH A LARGE STEEL CRUSHING MACHINE—EVEN THE EDGES, THEY ARE AS YOU CAN SEE, OF THE DECKLED. THIS PAPER IS THE FINEST MOULD MADE MATERIAL SIEVED FROM A SLURRY THAT MAN MIGHT MAKE!"

During the dread reign of the Cholera in New York, I had accepted the invitation of a relative to spend a fortnight with him in the retirement of his cottage ornée on the banks of the Hudson. We had here around us all the ordinary means of summer amusement; and what with rambling in the woods, sketching, boating, fishing, bathing, music, and books, we should have passed the time pleasantly enough, but for the fearful intelligence which reached us every morning from the populous city. Not a day elapsed which did not bring us news of the decease of some acquaintance. Then as the fatality increased, we learned to expect daily the loss of some friend. At length we trembled at the approach of every messenger. The very air from the South seemed to us redolent with death. That palsying thought, indeed, took entire possession of my soul. I could neither speak, think, nor dream of any thing else. My host was of a less excitable temperament, and, although greatly depressed in spirits, exerted himself to sustain my own. His richly philosophical intellect was not at any time affected by unrealities. To the substances of terror he was sufficiently alive, but of its shadows he had no apprehension.

Just keep to your word and show your face. I've told them you're coming, you silly lass. There's no need to kiss or embrace. But we'd scribbled so much about being chaste At the first meeting: there should be no other lads to see my flushed smiles and passionate face.

On a recent trip across our city of Spokane, Washington, my husband and I took an alternate route and passed a huge, warehouse-like complex of buildings. The place had an antiquated, abandoned look. There were only two cars inside the chain link-fenced premises—probably security, I thought. "What do you suppose that place used to be?" I asked. "That's the old R.A. Hanson Company," he said, and launched into a history lesson spiced with his memories of growing up a farm boy.