Iguanas

In London, the iguanas (giant lizards) in the zoo last week refused all nutriment. Lonely and cold, their hearts aswoon for the drowsy sweetness of the jungles of Brazil, they pined in languor, gazing with lacklustre eyes at troughs filled with such tasty morsels as corn, ants, dead flies, bread and mice. Keepers conferred. One day huge electric lights were strung along the lizard house. The iguanas awoke out of their nostalgia. They wriggled joyfully in the light of the strange and sterile suns above them; crept to the troughs, ate greedily.

Tadpole

In Erie, Pa., high-school children (watched by a chemistry instructor) set out to investigate. Filling a bowl with equal parts of whisky and water, they placed therein a red perch. It lived four seconds. A bullfrog lasted 13 seconds, a bass one minute, a sunfish four minutes. Then a tadpole was dropped into the bowl. It lived.

Sermon

In Portadown, Ulster, the Rev. W. P. Nicholson costumed himself to preach his Sunday sermon. He rolled his trousers up to his knees, exposing two fine stretches of fatted calf. He unbuttoned his shirt, baring a chest mottled with a biblical growth of curly hair. Then he mounted his pulpit. "I want to show the girls," he announced to his gasping, giggling, shrinking congregation, "how they look to others when . . . they wear short, sleeveless, low-necked frocks. I strongly . . . condemn such costumes. They bring tears to the eyes of the girls' elders."

Engaged

In Newton, Mass., last June, Mrs. Eunice J. Esten, 75, lay dying. By her side sat Alonzo H. Blood, 76, waiting, watching. In his pocket was a marriage license. If Mrs. Esten was actually dying, he would marry her then and there, for the two old friends had made an engagement long ago to be married before death divided them. With the promise of happiness before her, Mrs. Esten grew slowly stronger. Mr. Blood saw that he would not have to marry her after all. He went away. Last week Mrs. Esten again fell critically ill; back came Mr. Blood with a minister and license, and sat by her bedside, watching, waiting....

Santa

In Newark, N. J., a little man named Gustave Zobel, 70, stood in an artificial beard and a preposterous red coat, on a street corner, ringing a small bell. By performing this simple act for a certain number of hours every day he earned enough money for food and bed. Why it should give joy to anyone to see him standing in the cold wind tinkling a dinner clapper was more than Mr. Zobel could determine, but since The Volunteers of America were ready to pay for such mummery, it was not his part to find fault. He attracted a good deal of attention from passing children, which was disagreeable to him. One morning last week he got up too late to eat breakfast. As the hours passed he noticed that the air was getting curiously dark. A little drum pounded in the back of his neck. Suddenly his bell slipped out of his hand and jangled, with a thin note, to the pavement. Mr. Zobel pitched forward on his face. Death, said the city doctors, had resulted from heart failure.