In China there is no copyright law. An author’s reward consists in the thought that he has expressed his idea and thereby benefitted mankind. My reward so far for good work has been the pure Chinese article. * * * * * Walter Blackburn Harte has engaged board at the Widow Blannerhassett’s, second door east of the blacksmith shop. At Johnson’s grocery last night Harte beat old Si Emery three straight games at checkers—and that is no small matter. * * * * * Aunt Polly, of the old school, lives with a niece who is a modern of the moderns. Hearing the expression “decadent” used in connection with sundry articles in _The Yellow Book_ and _The Chip-Munk_, she looked into the matter herself when left alone after dinner and the young folks had gone to see and hear _The Scarlet Letter_. She read until her spectacles began to quiver and her cap strings heaved upon her breast like signals of distress in a brooding tempest. The books suddenly fell with a dull thud. “Decayed! well, I should say so!” groaned Aunt Polly, as she began rocking in her chair at the rate of a mile in two forty. What could she have been reading? * * * * * It’s a curious comment on our civilization that a priest in the Catholic Church should (or could) make himself obnoxious to a very large number of his townsmen by advocating total abstinence from strong drink. Yet this is exactly what the Rev. Father George Zurcher of Buffalo has done. It seems some merry brewers have been playing pranks on the good Father by sending him cases of bottled lager with four-horse teams, brass bands and decorated vehicles. It was awfully funny to see the big wagons rattle up to the little house that stands beside the church and then behold fat men with faces like full moons and noses like glowing oriflammes lug in the lager and deposit it on the priestly steps. Then other jokers took the matter in hand and sent hurry-up telephone orders for wet goods to be delivered at the Rectory. But Father George is a bit of a joker himself and at the same time is dead in earnest as the true humorist always is. And now when invoices of “Old Tom,” or “Triple XXX,” or “Monongahela” arrive Father George walks out in sight of the people who have gathered to see the fun, solemnly crosses himself, murmurs a prayer and proceeds to slam the bottles against the side of the pretty brick church. Slap-dash, spang, bang, zipp they go! Corks fly, red moisture flows and glass covers the sidewalk like hail after a Kansas blizzard. Some of the assembled citizens laugh, some cheer, others look solemn and deprecate the waste of valuable goods that might be sold and the proceeds given to the poor. Still others, sadder still, with sensitive spirits, deem it sacrilege to throw things at a sacred edifice, and ask for Bible justification.