"Oh, yes. By constant efforts and daily exercise I have succeeded so far that it troubles me now in one respect only. With one exception I am now entirely released from its influence. It is my locomotion that is affected. My l-lower limbs refuse to coincide in their movements. If I try to walk in a certain direction, one--one of them will take the step I desire, and the other tries to go by an entirely different route. It seems that one l--one of them is Adams, and the other Redmond. Absolutely the only time when they agree is when I ride a bicycle, and as one goes up when the other is going down, their opposite movements of course facilitate my progress; but when endeavoring to walk I find them utterly unmanageable. You observed my entrance into this room. Is there anything you can do for me, doctor?' "'Your case is indeed a strange one,' I said. 'I will consider the situation, and if you will call tomorrow at 10 o'clock I will prescribe for you.' "She rose from her chair, and I assisted her down the stairs to her carriage, which waited below. Such a sprawling, ungainly, mixed up walk I never saw before. "I meditated over her case for a long time that night and consulted all the authorities on locomotor ataxia, and diseases of the muscles, that I could find. I found nothing covering her case, and about midnight I wandered out along the streets for a breath of cool air. I passed a store kept by an old German whom I knew, and dropped in to speak a word with him. I had noticed some time before two tame deer he kept running about in a paddock in his yard. I asked him about them. He told me that they had been fighting, and had not been able to agree, so he had separated them, placing each one in a separate yard. Of a sudden an idea came to me. "The next day at ten the young lady came to my office. I had a prescription ready for her. I gave it to her, she read it, flushed and was inclined to be angry. "'Try it, madam,' I said. "She agreed to do so, and only yesterday I saw her on the street, walking as gracefully and easily as any lady in the city." "What was your prescription?" asked the reporter. "It was simply to wear a pair of bloomers," said the young physician. "You see by separating the opposing factions harmony was restored. The Adams and the Redmond divisions no longer clashed, and the cure of the patient was complete. Let me see," continued the physician, "it is nearly half past seven, and I have an engagement to call upon her at eight. In confidence, I may say that she has consented to change her name to mine at an early date. I would not have you repeat what I have told you, of course." "To be sure, I will not," said the reporter. "But won't you take another lemo--" "No, no, thank you," said the doctor, rising hurriedly, "I must go. Good evening. I will see you again in a few days." (_Houston Daily Post_, Sunday morning, May 3, 1896.) Simmon's Saturday Night How a Guileless Cattle Man Saw the Sights in Houston