Most of the color photographs taken so far end in the glass negative, and even that has its weak points. The ideal is a negative that will give a print in the actual colors of nature. In most of the so-called photographic color prints there is more or less failure in the blending of tones. There are no such crude greens or muddy pinks in these prints. The delicate shadings of flower petals are perfectly rendered. A gas flame burns up so brightly one could almost read by it. “I took a picture of the eclipse of the sun once,” remarked Mr. Lewisohn. He turns his camera on everything in earth or sky--a box of matches, a bronze statuette, sunset clouds. “Every man ought to have a hobby,” he said. “This is mine--just now. Some time I’ll change it. I studied engineering over in Europe. Electricity is wonderfully interesting.” When he was asked if the ordinary snapshot artist could hope to use his process, Mr. Lewisohn said that undoubtedly he could. No commercial use has been made of it, but that will come in time. The work so far has been carried forward because it interested the inventor. He has been experimenting for years, and his process has been commented on favorably by European authorities. He has written something about it for the 1915 “American Annual of Photography.” To Absorb Stray Shocks. As a result of the death of Edward Ligouri from electric shock, the New Haven Railroad has installed an aërial safety device on its overhead high-tension electric system to take up any stray electric current. Ligouri was fatally shocked while boarding an electric train at the Glenbrook station on the New Canaan branch. Coroner Phelan rendered a verdict that death was due to electricity diverted from its fixed pathway by the unfastening of copper-rail bond wires. Bowery Minstrel Dies. The Minstrel of the Bowery, in New York, is dead! The sweetest singer that ever entertained the men of the fifteen-cent lodging houses and the five-cent eating places died with the echo of his own singing, and just as he heard a dozen men burst into applause in the saloon at 28 Bowery. And the Bowery is sad. The Bowery is puzzled, too, for their minstrel was a man of mystery, an English remittance man, and now his identity will never be revealed. “John Sullivan, forty years old, an actor, no home, dropped dead from heart disease” is the way the police slip tells the story. Back of that simple statement is the shadow of fourteen years’ exile from home and kin, of as many years spent in cheering the unlovely hours of the outcasts that drift to the Bowery as a magnet to the steel.