Speaking of carrier pigeons—although no one has done so—reminds me of a yarn that was related at the front in 1918. A half company of a regiment in the Rainbow Division, on going forward early one morning in a heavy fog for a raid across No Man’s Land, carried along with the rest of the customary equipment a homing pigeon. The pigeon in its wicker cage swung on the arm of a private, who likewise was burdened with his rifle, his extra rounds of ammunition, his trenching tool, his pair of wire cutters, his steel helmet, his gas mask, his emergency ration and quite a number of other more or less cumbersome items. It was to be a surprise attack behind a cloak of the fog, so there was no artillery preparation as the squads climbed over the top and advanced into the mist-hidden beyond. Behind, in the posts of observation and in the post of command, the Colonel and his aides and his intelligence officers waited for the sound of firing. When after some minutes the distant rattle of the rifle fire came to their ears they began calculating how long reasonably it might be before word reached them by one or another medium of communication touching on the results of the foray. But the ground telephone remained mute, and no runner returned through the fog with tidings. The suspense increased as time passed. Suddenly a pigeon sped into view, flying close to the earth. While eager eyes followed it in its course the winged messenger circled until it located its portable cote just behind the Colonel’s position and fluttering down it entered its familiar shelter. An athletic member of the staff hustled up the ladder. In half a minute he was tumbling down again, clutching in one hand the little scroll of paper that he had found fastened about the pigeon’s leg. With fingers that trembled in anxiety the Colonel unrolled the paper and read aloud what was written upon it. What he read, in the hurried chirography of a kid private, was the following succinct statement: “I’m tired of carrying this damn bird.” § 72 Total Loss! For the first time in the history of the State—it was a Southern State—an electrocution took place within the walls of the State prison. The Legislature, keeping step with the march of progress and civilization, had ordered the installation of an electric chair to take the honored place of the old-fashioned slip-noose under the left ears of the fathers. A negro “trusty” was an unwilling witness to the first performance under the new arrangement. The warden had detailed him as helper to the paid executioner. He issued forth from the lethal chamber with popped eyes and ashen face. A group of his fellow convicts knotted about him, anxious to hear the grisly details. He proceeded to elucidate: