night up at Bert and Edna's?" she ventured.

"No, no, my dear," said the intelligent bricklayer, slightly irked.
"Anyone could see that this here substance is a dead ringer for Portland
stone, and I am going to make heaps and heaps of it and call it
'Portland cement.' It is little enough that I can do for the old
island."

And so that's how Portland cement was named. Rumor hath it that the
first Portland cement in America was made at Allentown, Pa., in 1875,
but I wouldn't want to be quoted as having said that. But I will say
that the total annual production in this country is now over 90,000,000
barrels.

* * * * *

It is interesting to note that cement is usually packed in cloth sacks,
although sometimes paper bags are used.

"A charge is made for packing cement in paper bags," the books says.
"These, of course, are not redeemable."

One can understand their not wanting to take back a paper bag in which
cement has been wrapped. The wonder is that the bag lasts until you get
home with it. I tried to take six cantaloups home in a paper bag the
other night and had a bad enough time of it. Cement, when it is in good
form, must be much worse than cantaloup, and the redeemable remnants of
the bag must be negligible. But why charge extra for using paper bags?
That seems like adding whatever it is you add to injury. Apologies,
rather than extra charge, should be in order. However, I suppose that
these cement people understand their business. I shall know enough to
watch out, however, and insist on having whatever cement I may be called
upon to carry home done up in a cloth sack. "Not in a paper bag, if you
please," I shall say very politely to the clerk.

L

OPEN BOOKCASES

Things have come to a pretty pass when a man can't buy a bookcase that
hasn't got glass doors on it. What are we becoming--a nation of
weaklings?

All over New York city I have been,--trying to get something in which to
keep books. And what am I shown? Curio cabinets, inclosed whatnots,
museum cases in which to display fragments from the neolithic age, and
glass-faced sarcophagi for dead butterflies.

"But I am apt to use my books at any time," I explain to the salesman.
"I never can tell when it is coming on me. And when I want a book I want
it quickly. I don't want to have to send down to the office for the key,
and I don't want to have to manipulate any trick ball-bearings and open
up a case as if I