One of our Robbinsdale farmer boys who was active in the big blowout in France was explaining the mysteries of a barb wire entanglement to a sweet country miss. Using the pasture fence and county road ditch to simulate trench conditions, our farmer-doughboy “went over the top” at the zero hour, much to her delectation. She joined in the second attack, but our friend said the entire battle effect was spoiled when her skirt caught in the barbs, and she exclaimed in a very unmilitary manner: “Move over, kiddo, until I blow my nose.” ------------------------------------------------------------------------ =_Lights Out, and Then_= By JANE GAITES ELEVEN o’clock p.m.—a dainty little ankle adorned by the lace ruffle of a silken pair of pajamas is drawn under the warm, crisp covers. A little brunette head is nestled more comfortably on the soft pillows—two sleepy gray-blue eyes glance demurely but searchingly around the room. A tired yawn is suppressed by tiny rosy finger-tips—a small round arm reaches upward, and, presto—the lights go out. A moment of struggling is encountered in the gloom,—follows a turning over, and suddenly the shapely little head is jerked breathlessly under the covers. Part of a minute elapses, then—“Ow, help, murder, police, oh—oh, oh, my God!—a man!” A frantic struggle to turn on the lights commences, but the poor frightened little slip of a girl can’t find the switch. An anxious pater rushes in amidst the hysterical screams of his exceedingly excited wifie who just knows that she will collapse! Two minutes later, with the lights well on, daughter is snuggled securely in pater’s protecting arms,—but where is the man? A faint sound arises from under the blankets, at which daughter Fanchon screams, and mother, true to her prediction, faints. Oh! how terrible is the suspense of that fateful night! Presently, the “sound” is converted into an unmistakeable mew—Tabby innocently emerges from the covers, and demure little Fanchon very conventionally cries, “Oh, Hell—it’s only the cat!” * * * * * =Billy Noonan’s Sunshine= The sad part about fishing trips this year is that the fisherman will have to fish. It is next to impossible to get a drink in St. Paul—unless you have the price. John Smith, Cass Lake, Minn., Indian, says he fished on the Rainy river 115 years ago. There’s a mark for some of you fish liars to aim at. Thrift advocates are advising wives to discard all useless things around the house. It looks bad for a lot of husbands. Villa supported the rebels until they got into power, but now he is “agin” them. There must be a strain of Irish in him. They are still selling beer in England at three cents a glass. The fare to England is only $179.75. The daily papers are running articles about the great slashing in wearing apparel. They must refer to the laundries.