The tom cat walketh on the fence And calleth to his mate; Oh, would that he would hie him hence When he has got a date. He cometh when my eyelids close, To keep his moonlit tryst, And rouses me from my sweet repose, To pray that he’ll desist ’Tis true the tom cat grieves me sore When he doth prowl around; But would that I, like he, got more Of those long evenings out. * * * * * Beware, Girls Lovers are the most devoted where they least expect to wed. All they seek is cruel conquest, and when hearts are made to yield, They forsake the broken fortress and besiege another field. They are like the crafty serpent coiled beneath the fairest flower, Till the butterfly or the hum-bird falls within its deadly power. _Our Rumor Department_ _By Our Los Angeles Correspondent_ An enthusiastic reader sends us an epistle of inquiry. We cannot say that it is from “Paul” to the Corinthians, because, though the correspondent signs “Paul,” our noble John Henry reads “Whiz Bang.” Paul wants to know whether or not it is a fact that there is anything to the rumor that Owen Moore, former husband of Mary Pickford, is due to marry Mildred Harris, late wife of Charlie Chaplin? So far as Whiz Bang knows, neither Owen nor Mildred have any wild desires to become as one. Mildred scarcely seems of a type that would appeal to the silent youngster whom Mary released at Minden. Speaking of Minden? Where is that place? Oh, yes, up in Nevada. Wasn’t it Nevada which was going to show the Fairbanks and Pickfords that such sudden splitting of the wedded bonds couldn’t be pulled off in that sanctified state? And didn’t Whiz Bang tip you off that Nevada was long on talk and short on official action. Yes, indeedy. Doug Fairbanks puts on the old carpet slippers and Mary smoothes his hair for all the world like an old married couple and no one to say them nay, not even Nevada. The “rumor” which friend Paul sent to us reminds us forcibly again that you can hear anything about any one in the picture world or connected with it. Stick around the Alexandria hotel lobby for ten minutes and the pedigree of every male and female whose face appears upon the screen will be peddled to you ad libitum. Three years ago the Alexandria hotel lobby was the scene of gigantic picture operations—in the mind. It was customary for ten million dollar organizations to be formed every five minutes. That was in the days of the magic rug. It seemed no one could step on the rug in front of the hotel counter without becoming stricken. New studios by the thousands were built every night between six-thirty and seven o’clock.