Mrs. Bloolaw laid down her newspaper with an angry snort. “I see where they are talking about reviving the ‘Passion Play’; another of those disgraceful shows, I suppose.” * * * * * “How much,” asked John Burroughs in his daily Nature column, “does it cost to set a tree out in the street?” Some festive friends of ours set a bartender out in the street in the days B. P. and if memory is correct it cost them $10 and costs. * * * * * “People Who Ride in Our Car Never Have to Walk Back Home” advertises a St. Louis automobile agency. The girl in the house next door says a hat pin gives her the same assurance. * * * * * If there’s one secluded spot That I would like to own And fence about, ’tis that small plot Where my wild oats were sown. * * * * * She asked him if he’d take a seat, But he, his blushes hiding, Replied that he preferred to stand, For he’d been horseback riding. * * * * * The porcupine may have his quills, The elephant his trunk, But when it comes to common scents My money’s on the skunk. _Film Feast Fights_ _Ah! Now the dainty damsels of the screen have the excitement for which their artistic temperaments crave! For the edification of the filmland folk, Los Angeles hotels have introduced the prize fight as a dinner attraction, partly supplanting the dinner dansant, and here we have diminutive Bebe Daniels cavorting at one of these film fight feasts, rubbing elbows with effete Kid McCoy, whose barefoot partner, as Richmond states, put on her shoes and walked out._ Society prize fights are the latest in Los Angeles and Pasadena. The winter tourists, society people and so on have fallen. Didn’t Anne Morgan set the example in New York? Main dining rooms have been turned into prize rings, where, during a lull in the supper dance, the fighters, their seconds, water bottles, cuspidors and other necessary adjuncts are led forth. No, prizefighters don’t generally have cuspidors; they generally spit in the water bucket or on the floor; anyhow, they spit. They can’t help it. The swell hotels of Pasadena and Los Angeles already have staged their preliminary fistic functions. There is no bunc about the fights, at least so far as appearance and appurtenances are concerned. The men wear regulation ring clothes and, as everyone knows, this means they can’t wear much more than most of the women present, who shriek with delight and false alarm at the thud of brawny fists on hairy breasts and bloody noses.