"All right, you need not say 'night message,' omit the place from, date, all punctuations, 'sig' and cut 'em to the bone," came from St. Louis, "and mind you, hurry up," taunted Moxon. This was probably the first time in his life that Albert Ayres was requested to "hurry up," he being used to hear the opposite, "to slow up," and his black eyes snapped in anticipation of the fun he was about to have. His key flew open and a fire of dots and dashes ensued, which to a layman might sound like shot poured into a tin horn. The reputation of the whole office seemed to be at stake, and all gathered around to see, what was rightly thought would be an unparalleled feat of rapid transmission. Moxon took the first message, Day the second, Wheeler the third, while the writer handled the fourth, each rotating in this manner, filling in dates, destinations, etc., awaiting his turn to copy the next message. The excitement was intense when it was announced that 12 messages had been received in five minutes. There were no breaks, or interruptions, and at 12:55 A. M., precisely 55 minutes from the starting time, the 120 messages were received and were en route to New York, accomplishing, probably, the most unequalled feat of fast sending ever attempted. The matter was kept an office secret and Moxon received much credit. It never leaked out how his tact secured ready co-operation and enabled him to cope with a difficult situation. HIS OLD KENTUCKY HOME. While traveling recently through the South, the writer was marooned for several hours near Horse Cave, in Kentucky. The Cumberland River was very high, swamping the darkies' cabins en route, compelling the colored people to take refuge on their roofs, where they waited "fo' de ribber to go down." The negroes accepted the situation very cheerfully, many playing their banjoes and singing olden time melodies and making light of their predicament. Almost involuntarily, I began humming "My Old Kentucky Home" and my thoughts were of the "yellow fields o' corn," when a voice behind me inquired, "Do you like that song?" I assured him that the tune was all right, but the words were a trifle silly. "Well, I don't think so," he remarked, "the words and air are both very sweet to me, and if you'll make room for me, I'll tell you how that song compelled me to make a trip of 2,000 miles." Space was given him and he began his narrative. "It was five years ago that I was induced to go west by the alluring advertisements of the railroad company, who related how easy it was to speedily get rich in Colorado. "I started with my outfit and a couple of weeks later located at Cripple Creek, then a prosperous mining camp. "Well, stranger, I didn't like it there in the mountains, I couldn't get used to the country and the people, and the climate was so different from 'Old Kaintuck.' Why, it was just as liable to snow on the 4th of July as it was on the 1st of January.