O.O. McIntyre
Dayton Daily News/June 29, 1914
NEW YORK, June 29. Harry Carroll, the young songwriter who cleaned up $75,000 last year by writing the “Trail of the Lonesome Pine,” and another hit, saw two actors meet on Broadway. One of them was in deep mourning, and the other asked who was dead.
“My grandfather,” was the reply. “We buried him yesterday.”
The other actor murmured sympathy. “Many at the funeral?”
A gleam of satisfaction broke over the other’s gloomy face. “My boy,” he exclaimed, “we were turning ’em away.”
Old Grant Rice, the sporting writer, used to live in Nashville, and one evening his next door neighbor stopped him and showed a telephone he had just put in connecting his office and house. He was much pleased with it.
“I’ll tell you Grant,” he said, “the telephone is a wonderful thing. I want you to dine with me this evening. Wait a minute and I will notify my wife to expect you.”
Speaking through the phone. “Mr. Rice will dine with us this evening.” Then to Rice, “Now listen and hear how plainly her reply is.” The reply came back with startling distinctness. “Ask Mr. Rice if he thinks we keep a hotel.”
Paterson, N. J., our neighbor, has for years rested under terrible stigmas. She has been known as the “hot bed of anarchy,” the headquarters for blood and riot campaigns and has consequently suffered in the eyes of the world. She has incurred more than her just due of criticism and malediction as time went on, so it was rather appropriate when they buried the hammer there the other week. The mayor and prominent citizens conducted the unique ceremony and the giant steel hammer, symbolic of the mental attitude of the knockers, was buried at a conspicuous corner of the city.
The old story of the stranger who walked up to Nat Goodwin at Forty-second street and Broadway and said: “Can I get a car here for Harlem?” and the reply of Goodwin, “Yes, you can this time, but don’t you ever ask me again,” has a new angle. It is told by Barney Dreyfus, who was here recently with his Pittsburg Pirates. Dreyfus early this spring was forced to stay over a couple of days in a small country town down south. Desiring to post some letters, he said to a small boy in the road: “Son, I want to go to the postofflce.” “All right,” said the boy, “but hurry back.”
Miss Virginia Pope has opened up a sanitarium for birds In Lincoln Square. Miss Pope is a graduate of a school of medicine and has for several years made a big income caring for sick birds. Among Miss Pope’s little patients Is one canary suffering from asthma and a blind canary for which Miss Pope considerately arranges the perches of his. cage alike each day so that he can find his food. Aside from her patients, Miss Pope has birds of her own. She has been offered $1,000 for Coco, her Australian cockatoo, but no money can buy him. He converses and curses in three languages.
R. A. Brinkerhoff, one of the founders of the Toledo Bee, and who now lives in California, is paying a visit to his son, R. M. Brinkerhoff, the well-known illustrator. A group of artists were at Mr. Brinkerhoff’s studio discussing the comfort and the subsequent evils of smoking. Mr. Brinkerhoff, Sr., then told of a friend of his in Toledo who had for 20 years smoked incessantly for six months in the year and for the remaining six months never smoked at all. He had never deviated from this modus operandi since he put it into action. “Well,” said one of the artists, “I can believe that of an Esquimaux where the nights and days are six months long, but not for a regular human.”
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