The instrument is an odd mixture of a deed and a will, and was drawn twenty-five years ago. According to the probate records, the instrument was given in consideration of the love and goodwill of the Lord and one cent found in one of the buildings conveyed. There was a reservation in the instrument, giving the grantor the right to use the lands for life, and to improve and repair the houses and to pay taxes and insurance. It may be safely surmised that the title to this property will vest in the heirs of the testator. Mr. Hastings was a resident of Ashburnham and a well-known citizen. A SPIRIT WILL A spirit will was rejected in Washington, D.C., on August 12th, 1910, by Justice Barnard of the Supreme Court of the District of Columbia. Mrs. Elida J. G. Crowell, widow of William H. Crowell, a clerk in the Treasury Department, applied to the court for the appointment of the deceased’s brother as administrator of his estate and offered in evidence what purported to be a translation of an illegible message, which Crowell scribbled while on his deathbed, favoring his brother’s appointment. The court was unable to decipher the scrawl, but Mrs. Crowell said a “translation” had been made for her by a “slate-writing medium.” The “translation” in part read: “Dear Elida,-- “This is what I tried to write on a slip of paper: ‘I want my brother, W. H. H. Crowell, Washington, U. S. A., if I should pass away with my sickness. I have perfect trust in him. I believe he will deal honestly with my children. I have set aside $5000 for the exclusive use of my wife. Give little Elizabeth and brother both $100 to put in the Savings Bank.’ Ruby met me. I have seen many folk here. This is a beautiful world. Is better than the Sixth Auditor’s office. They can’t put me out here. “W. H. CROWELL. “Date, June 7, 1910.” MYSTERY OF A LITTLE TRUNK On September 1st, 1910, Adolph Steinberg, an old German cobbler, died in Brooklyn, New York, at 36 Snyder Avenue. For a quarter of a century he had half-soled and mended shoes for those who lived in that section of the city. Mayor Gaynor was one of his customers, and many other prominent men used to go to his little shop to have their shoes repaired. There always lay close to Steinberg’s feet, as he stitched away, a little metal trunk that was never out of his sight a moment during the day. It was never open, and no one ever caught a glimpse of its contents. At night it was placed under Steinberg’s bed, and in the morning he would pull it out and drag it over to his bench.