June

People who know a good deal about band music say that there are two classes of popular composers -- Sousa and the rest.

The sweet girl graduate is having her graduation dress made and in some cases her graduating essay written.

Here it is June, balmy, leafy June, the month of roses and the poets, and still nearly everybody has his winter flannels on.

The 24-hour notation system is trying to get itself established in this country. It would be convenient in many ways, but decidedly odd as well.

Fifteen hundred motor carriages are in daily circulation in Paris. This is probably the largest motor carriage circulation in the universe.

The National Educational Association of America will meet in Milwaukee July 9, but the brewers there do not anticipate any marked increase of business.

A girl who is totally blind rides her bicycle about the streets daily in St. Louis and doesn't knock down many more people than girl bicyclists around here who can see.

A new terror will be added to life if motor carriages ever come into general use and women try to steer them.

The ``human ostrich,'' who had been swallowing knives, glass and a full assortment of hardware in various dime museums, has at last swallowed one knife too much. Even the human stomach has its limitations.

Yesterday's game between Boston and Baltimore was critical enough to satisfy the most exacting.

John B. Curtis, a Maine millionaire, who died recently, made his fortune by the sale of chewing gum. Few men ever kept so many girls busy as he.

So the colored Baptists are to be convened in grand council here in September. Boston is the convention city of the country, par excellence.