Have you ever noticed a flock of pretty but scolding maidens in a downtown doorway or the post-office entrance, or the vestibule of a movie-picture place wildly calling for umbrellas, raincoats, newspapers, brother’s, or best beau’s silk handkerchief, or anything to prevent that lovely seven or ten-dollar hat from being ruined by the sudden shower? If you are a masculine reader, have you ever been compelled to “cough up” from three to six dollars in order to get your fair Dulcinea home from play or dance when it is raining pitchforks and black cats and the rubber-coated man on the box has suddenly become so stiff and lofty—in his price, at least—that occasionally one doubts if he can be touched even with a ten-spot bill or a ten-foot pole? If you have ever passed through any of the above-enumerated experiences—and what man or woman has not—forget it; deliverance is at hand. The hour of the hastily impressed newspaper, the borrowed umbrella, or the painfully extracted cash loan from the hotel clerk or elevator boy is to bob up unserenely no more, for the paper raincoat has taken its place alongside the egg sandwich, chewing gum, and insurance policies placed before the public in vending machines. The man or woman who drops a nickel for a package of gum to aid in the digestion of his nickel-in-the-slot meal, and then pays a quarter to another machine for a policy insuring him or her against the consequences, may soon get a raincoat from an adjacent machine as a result of the ingenuity of a woman, who has obtained a patent on a paper raincoat, said to be waterproof. She plans to manufacture the coats in large quantities and distribute them in specially devised vending devices. It is to be presumed that the feminine raincoat will be provided with a cute little hood, or capote, as they say in French, and possibly the masculine garment will have some attachment that will be quite eskimo and save the wearer’s two-dollar derby from gaining an inch or two in circumference. All hail, hoch, also hear-hear to the paper raincoat! Bah to the never-present, disappearing, eye-destroying, pestiferous umbrella. “Corpse” Smokes in Hearse. Panic was caused along the road between Jefferson and Chapel, Ohio, by the spectacle of what apparently was a corpse sitting upright in the middle of a hearse and serenely puffing a cigar. The “remains” which had indulged in this unseemly performance were Will Hodge, of Jefferson. Hodge had attended the funeral of an aunt at Chapel. On the long trip home after the interment, Hodge started riding beside the driver of the hearse. The intense cold soon chilled him to the bone, and he obtained permission from the driver to get inside the glass case. Here he soon got warm, and, to add to the comfort of his journey, he lighted a cigar. Rural folks along the way were terrified. Toss on Raft Four Days at Sea.