The St. Johns herald., 1893-08-10
LOST IN STREET CARS.
A Queer Collection of Articles
 Forgotten by Passengers.
The Office of a Chicago Company That Has Regular Museum of Curlcsities Everything from a Night GowR
 to an Ear Trumpet.


 Everything from Night GowR
 to an Ear Trumpet.
 "You've left your umbrella, lady!' and the conductor waved frantically in the air parasol adorned with multifarious tassels. The lady ad- dressed, who had just got off the car, turned, seized the parasol and without word of thanks disappeared in the throng which crowds Madison street at the fashionable shopping hour.
 ''Women are curious creatures,' re- marked the conductor to an observant passenger. They're so forgetfu1, al- ways leaving things in the cars, and when we happen to notice them before they get out of sight they never thank us. And, by the way, there's an awful lot of stuff left in the cars. I've found nearly everything. Last trip picked up lady's purse.''
 f'What becomes of all the articles that are left?'' asked the observant passenger, whose curiosity had been aroused.
 'Why, they are all turned in at the office. If you have time a trip there would be interesting"
 The office of the West division street railroad is located at the corner of Washington and Jefferson streets, and thither the observant passenger wend- ed her way, says the Chicago Times.
 The young lady in charge of the lost and found department readily permit ted herself to be interviewed. The office is commodious one, surrounded by rows of pigeon holes, in which neatly labeled and ticketed is to be seen nearly every conceivable article that is capable of being ''lost and found."
 "You see," said the custodian, 'our stock is rather low at present, be- cause articles unclaimed after thirty days are returned to the conductor finding them. Quantities of fruit and flowers are found, but they are i'm mediately returned to the finder, as is the rule with all perishable goods. This morning a package of canned goods came in. Perhaps you would like to examine my list"
 Here the young lady extended her record book for inspection. There were umbrellas by the score, with straight sticks and crooked sticks, and some with no sticks at all. There were gloves from the genteel suede to the one of plain brown cotton. There were rings from the noble diamond to the one of paste.
 An Episcopalian prayer-book had been left at the close of Lent, which awakens the query: ''Has it's owner ceased to pray?" Next on the list was a nursing bottle. Its poor little owner of course went hungry until another could be procured at neigh boring store; the baby meanwhile threatening, as best it could, to change it's boarding place if it must be so cruelty treated.
 A lantern, an old-fashioned one, was there. Some Diogenes' search had been brought to sudden close; or had he found it useless?
 Two items-things of much use similar, yet not alike, were scrawled across the page; one check for fifty dollars, and the other pair of checked 'pants," each infinitely use- ful while it lasts, but one represent ing more than the other, being able to clothe the whole body and the 'in- ner man" with food as well.
 Here the observant passenger learned that carpenters lose saws, washerwom- en lose soiled clothes and soap, barbers lose cases of their dangerous imple- ments, linen of all work" lose old hatch cts, farmers lose carpet-bags, deaf per sons lose their ear trumpets, workmen lose dinner pails, lovers forget candy boxes and opera glasses, and ladies' well, ladies sometimes lose their night gowns.
 Even a bottle of consumption cure had been left with no one to cure. A blundering youth had mislaid his tick cts for a theater-more perishable goods.
 But there were three small wax rab- bits. Who lost them? Crinoline? Yes; one package. Its loss to the owner will never be known, but one thing is assured: one conductors wife, at least, will lead the fashion next Sunday in a fin de siecle skirt.
 At last, but not least, was found rosary. It's sight recalled Sister Dolo- rosa,'' with wealth of sweet flowers that grew in the Kentucky convent garden. What new penance would this pure creature have to perform for losing the string of brown beads, over which her hands had passed for years? None, hoped the observant passenger, as she left the office just in time to see a fat woman Close Ter grip" on trail car and indent the wet block pavement with her plenteous personality.
 The Pennies We Lose.