MISCELLANY: Medicine

“TIME brings all things”

Song

Often has the clear tenor voice of E. Vaughn Ray, Maskat Temple Shriner, member of the first Baptist Church, rung out at funerals in Wichita Falls, Tex. Last week, once more, he sang, “Oh Lord, Is It I?” But this time his voice emerged from a record played on a phonograph in one of the Sunday school rooms. “Whose funeral is it?” whispered a late comer to an usher. “Vaughn Ray’s,” replied the other. “Don’t he sing pretty? There’s the body up the aisle, under the flowers. . . .”

Tongue

At Evreux, France, Mme. de Landsheer, a Belgian lady touring with her husband, became violently ill at the hotel luncheon table. M. de Landsheer engaged a room at once, rushed his wife into bed, sped away for assistance. Upon his return with a doctor, he found his wife dead, her face mottled, eyes bulging. Examination revealed that Mme. de Landsheer’s tongue had somehow completely reversed itself and been drawn into her larynx, strangling her.

Progress

A thick figure in a leather jacket and goggles climbed out of the cockpit of a an airplane. “Where am I?” he demanded, viewing with suspicion the brown terrain, the fog-filled, dingy air. “Half a mile from London, sir,” replied the pilot courteously. Upon this information, the goggled person, a passenger recently embarked at Brussels, began a series of unpleasant antics, striking his fist against the side of the plane, cursing in a sodden voice, and stamping on the ground. He had wanted, it appeared, to go to Paris. At the Brussels Aerodrome, four planes had been leaving simultaneously for London, Brussels, Cologne, and Paris. He had simply gotten the wrong one. Becoming calmer, he exhibited a ticket—”Brussels to Paris.” Then, actually, he smiled. “I always used to take the wrong train. . . .” he said.

Quaint

Hindenburg snorted. Mussolini bellowed. They charged, wallowed together in a choking cloud of dust. Baldwin, Coolidge and Poincare chewed their cuds, mooed stolidly as Hindenburg and Mussolini were led back to the stalls from which they had escaped to battle. Tourists, visiting last week the late summer cattle fair at Frauenfeld, Switzerland, noted as “quaint” the immemorial custom by which local farmers name annually their prize cattle after world famous men.