A scientist has already succeeded in grafting some interstitial glands (the secretions of which hold the source of vital forces) to old goats and rams, which soon recovered their youth and vigor. He is of the opinion that his laboratory experiments can be introduced into the operating theatre, and considers that an interstitial gland of a monkey grafted on an old man will restore him his youth. It is interesting to note that five years ago the thyroid glands taken from a monkey were grafted on to a boy of fourteen, who was an idiot. The result was absolutely successful, for two years later the boy became completely normal and in 1917 went into the Army. . . . I read it--as did most of my 40,000 suburban fellow-citizens--with a detached and half-incredulous feeling of, "Tut! tut! Whatever will they be up to next?" After a moment's consideration, I put the paper in my pocket, intending presently to burn it. Gran'pa was a doddering old man who was always adopting the "If-only-I-were-twenty-years-younger" pose. He had tried many nostrums and followed much advice, with varying success, and I thought that it would be inadvisable for him to read of this latest and most nonsensical theory. It would only make him restless and fidgety. So it seemed best to burn the newspaper and keep the matter quiet. I was reckoning without two things, however--modern journalism and modern children. The papers started booming the discovery, it caught Molly's eye, and Molly passed on a particularly lurid account of it to Gran'pa. Her method was simple and tactful. She cut the article out and dropped it in Gran'pa's bedroom. The next morning, an open volume of _The Encyclopædia Britannica_ lay on the breakfast table, and, looking through its pages in deep contemplation, was Gran'pa, so engrossed and so deaf that he was evidently unaware of my presence in the room. I crept up behind him, peered over his shoulder, and caught sight of the word--"GLANDERS," and then--"GLANDS." I was about to speak (or cough) when Molly entered. He shut the book with a snap, stood up, heaved a deep sigh, and cleared his throat. "George," he said, "I found a newspaper cutting in my bedroom when I was dressing this morning. Whose is it?" I hesitated. It was very deplorable to have to give one's only daughter away; but I saw no help for it. "I'm afraid," I explained, in great, gusty shouts, "that Molly must have dropped it last night. She went into your bedroom for something and . . ." I paused for more breath. "Whassat?" he asked, with a trumpet-shaped hand to his ear. I again went over the explanation of this most unfortunate occurrence, and he grasped it hazily and suspiciously, as a man whose eyes are seeking to fathom the interior of a darkened room. "I don't know how it got there," he mumbled. "But--George--I'm _glad_!"