Centipedes Moving North. The department of agriculture has made a study of the house centipede which of late has spread from the Southern States to a number of Northern States, and has issued a bulletin in which some of its characteristics are set forth. It thrives in most places and devours various house pests, such as moths, roaches, flies, probably even bedbugs, and others. It does not injure household goods, woolens, et cetera, as is commonly supposed. Its bite is somewhat poisonous, but it seldom bites human beings except in self-defense. Prompt dressing with ammonia is recommended as the best remedy for the bites. Biggest Lemon Is in Jersey. Mrs. Henry H. Bull, of Sparta, N. J., is exhibiting a lemon said to be the largest ever raised in a hothouse in this section of the country. The lemon measures thirteen inches in circumference, is eight inches in length, and weighs four pounds. It took one year from the time the tree blossomed until the lemon was ripe. The trees is five years old. Fat Girl Passenger Stops Railway Traffic. Traffic on the New York Central line was delayed twenty minutes when Anna Chelton, Oil City’s fat girl, weighing more than 700 pounds, departed to join a circus. Half a dozen men transported her in a specially made wheel chair to the baggage car, and when a transfer was made at Andover, Pa., the car was detached and shifted to the freight depot. Later the baggage car of the second train was shifted to the depot, and the weighty damsel placed in it. The train was held until the crew made the transfer. Carnegie Medal Is Well Won by Boy. The stuff they mold heroes of cropped out at Dothan, Ala., one spring morning. Now Henry T. Matthews, a youngster of that city, is wearing a bronze medal presented by Andrew Carnegie for a remarkable deed of valor committed with such modesty as would almost suggest indifference. Newspapers throughout the State are now presenting the youth’s name as a new representative of Alabama in the select few the Carnegie commission chooses to call heroes. It all came about something like this: Little Benjamin Grant, son of B. J. Grant, Dothan banker, and several other playmates, whose ages averaged about the three-year mark, had slipped from their nurses who chatted in the sunshine and were enjoying the fine spring morning away up under the Grant residence, digging trenches, making frog houses, tunnels, and such things and getting their fresh linen just as dirty as they shouldn’t. Suddenly Benjamin disappeared, right before the eyes of his mystified young friends. It was as if the earth had swallowed him up.