The railroad reporter of the Buffalo _Express_ is a lightning calculator. He figured out the time made by the Empire State Express on its famous run the other day and said, “This is at the rate of less than a mile a minute.” Father has an old cow out in the pasture, and when she gets real scared she can run less than a mile a minute, and she doesn’t seem to be going so fast either. * * * * * The Editor of the _Chip-Munk_, dead beat out, brain-tired and on the verge of hysteria, acknowledges that he can no longer keep up with the procession. So he advertises for men to write his “Notes,” and offers a prize of five dollars to the fellow who sends in the best one, and a booby prize of fifty cents for the worst. Earl & Wilson’s hands are at it sharp, and we may soon expect something choice. Now is the time to subscribe. * * * * * We understand that the principle of writing “according to one’s lights” is an admirable one and worthy of all Philistinical endorsement. This is undoubtedly true, but we learn on excellent authority that William Winter writes according to his liver—a physiological aberration from the true principle. * * * * * It is probable that the custodian of the Talleyrand Memoirs little knew what he was doing for American letters when he gave those precious chestnuts to the _Century_ magazine four or five years ago. We have had little but Napoleon since. The Little Corporal has been done up on a dozen presses in as many different ways as a residuary turkey after Thanksgiving, and now that he has got down to wishbone soup we are getting Lincoln in a similar variety of _rechauffés_. I wonder what graveyard will be dug up next? * * * * * Under the thrilling caption of “Three Hundred Dollars for a Girl,” I read that “an Italian sold his daughter to a man at Dunbar, Pennsylvania.” That is outrageous. No such sale should be allowed under a million dollars. * * * * * Mr. Cudahy is sending a curious circular to his friends and his enemies, offering to supply his autograph, made with a rubber stamp, to all who apply. The circular has the somewhat startling headline, “The World is my Meat!” The closing paragraph of this address is as follows: “Whether you have bought my book or borrowed it cuts no figure. As to paying a dollar to the Fresh Air Fund, that is all in a pig’s eye! Seventeen girls and a Forelady are constantly employed sending out my autographs. Should the rush continue, if necessary, I’ll put on a night gang—working double shift. Autograph Fiends should direct: Cudio of Mr. Studahy, Caxton Building, Chicago; thus avoiding the delay incident to the mail that goes _via_ the Abattoir.” * * * * * Some jokes are funny because they are not humorous. Richard Mansfield is to renounce the stage for the lecture platform.