 A bonfire was originally a funeral pyre. A constable chases a heifer and gets caught in a trap. Two famous women fight a duo with fingernails. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, those amazing statements mean that this is Lindsey McCary back again with another array of unusual news items and odd facts to make you say, can you imagine that? We'll all be back in just one minute and a half, so wait around, won't you? And after one and a half minutes, we're back with our first item, and here it is. In the month of November, 1915, Constable Skaffington Kelso of Eddington, Maine, started out on a very routine matter of official business with a writ of replubbin in his pocket to take over a chattel which was involved in a civil lawsuit. The chattel, specifically, was a heifer. And as he approached the animal, she looked up and... Come on, don't run away now. Nobody's going to hurt you. Come on, let me put this rope around your neck. And still turn. And still turn. Nobody's going to hurt you now. Come here. With a coin as that would have done credit to the shyest of feminine wiles, the heifer edged away from Constable Kelso. Then as he reached out to put the rope around the heifer's neck. Come on now. That's it, girl. That's it. Here, come back here, don't it? Come back here. Come on now. Come back here, do you hear me? Well, that started it. According to the heiress Constable, she walked four miles through a swamp, then decided to circuit a mountain with the Constable grimly hanging onto the chase until... Now, almost... Gotcha. Get away. Get away. Go on now. Get away, doggy. A vicious dog held Constable Kelso at bay for two hours while the heifer placidly recovered her breath, protected by the snarling canine. Then the dog weary to the game and went away, leaving Kelso to resume the chase. On and on went the Constable and the heifer, then, while racing across a field... I'll get you. Yeah. Constable Kelso stepped into a mink trap. He finally captured the ambling heifer, though, and then he appeared before Judge Blanchard to collect extra costs because of the extra trouble he had while serving the writ of Repleven. Said the Constable to the judge... And your honor, I didn't only have all that trouble, but I lost my jackknife. A good one. Kelso was almost a rags. I ruined my shoes and ran myself almost to death. And that ain't the worst of it. At the grains meeting, one of the young ladies read a funny poem about the chase I had. And she wrote it. It might have been funny to her and the others, but it wasn't to me. P.S. Constable Scaffington Kelso was awarded the extra costs. Can you imagine that? Well, here's an interesting little bit of phrase origin. Have you ever been accused of passing the buck? If you have, I'm sure you'll be interested in knowing the origin of the phrase. It comes from draw poker, as played in the days when stakes were high. During those card games, an object was passed around the table to mark the position of the dealer. That object was called a buck, B-U-C-K. Now, the dealer usually anted for the other players. That is, the dealer placed in the center of the table the number of chips, gold pieces, or coins to the number of persons playing in the game for their admission fee. Thus, the dealer paid for everyone. Regretfully, we must imagine that some dealers to whom the buck was passed wanted to shirk the responsibility of paying up for all and passed the buck to the next man, thus implying that there was where the deal belonged. And so, from the game of poker, we have garnered our phrase passing the buck, which means the passing of responsibility to another's shoulders. If this were television, you could see a band of students and merry-makers desporting themselves around a huge bonfire. They're all having a great time enjoying themselves immensely, as jolly as that bonfire is, it has an exceedingly gruesome history. It wasn't always a bonfire as we know it. Let's imagine ourselves in the Middle Ages. A plague is sweeping through Europe. People die faster than they can be buried. That fact is brought to the attention of the authorities, one of whom says, What are we going to do? We can't leave the dead lying about the streets and the gutters. They'll spread this pestilence to the very walls of the Palace of the King. One of the doctors suggests that we burn the bodies. Well, that would get rid of them. But how about the holy mass? The people won't give up their dead if they're told to give them up without Christian burial. Let a priest administer the last sacrament to those on the fires. That will do it. Those grisly fires were soon called bone fires. The reason is obvious. But later, the bone fires were used for something different. The scene is a dungeon. The Spanish Inquisition holds trial. Listen, Raymond, the Casales, you have been tried and convicted of heresy. And therefore, it is the judgment of this most holy court that you are to be burnt at the stake in punishment for your most grievous crime. No. No. It was no crime. My political enemies did this to me. I've committed no crime. My enemies sent me to the bone fire. They sent me. And there is the origin of bonfire. The passage of time has taken out the E, shortened the O, and thus the word has lost its first grisly gruesome connotation until nowadays we think of a bonfire as a place around which gather happy, joyous merri-makers. Can you imagine that? Here's an amusing little story I dug up. It's true, and I think it'll give you a chuckle. A certain lady was staying at a German hotel. In the room next to hers was a pianist who played and played and played. When he got tired, he played a little more until he was rested enough to go on playing some more. The lady finally wrote him a bitter note and dispatched it by her maid. The note asked, No, commanded that the noise and racket stop. A few moments later, the lady's maid returned with another note. At this time, from the pianist to the lady, it read, Madam, I'm sorry to have annoyed you. Your request is granted. But it wasn't the contents of the note. Because hers had been so high and mighty and his so humble that sent the hot blood to her cheeks in an agony of embarrassment. No, it was the signature at the bottom of the pianist's note. Anton Rubinstein. We wonder what the lady thought when she realized that she had called the music of one of the world's greatest pianists, noise and racket. Speaking of pianists, do you recognize this? Yes, it's Liebestraum, Dream of Love, composed by Franz Liszt. And speaking of Franz Liszt, we have a story about the famous maestro who charmed all Europe with his artistry at the piano. We're going to tell you the story, then we're going to play detective with his Liebestraum. First, the story. Franz Liszt, with his finely chiseled profile, his shock of hair that fell to his shoulders like a lion's mane, was a natural target for adoring women who fell into the spell of his playing. Among these were the gifted and fashionable Countess of Agu and the literary genius Madame George Sand. Madame Sand and Madame Dagu were great friends, perhaps drawn together by their mutual admiration of Liszt. All went well until Liszt toured Switzerland, and Madame Sand toured Switzerland too. Madame Dagu stormed, but there was nothing to do but wait until the two wanderers returned when they did. Madame Sand is in? Don't lie to me now, she's in, isn't she? She returned this morning. But Madame Dagu, Madame Sand is very busy. She's writing. Well, she won't be for long. In the library, I presume? But Madame Dagu, I beg of you. Please don't go in until I've announced. When I have to say, I'll announce myself. Ah! Well, well, well, Countess, this is a surprise. Is it? You! You! And you, Franz! My dear Countess, you are all out of breath. I have enough breath for what I'm going to say. You too betraying me like this. I... I think I'd better wait in the other room. Oh no, you'll wait right here. Madame Sand, I thought you were my friend. You have no right to burst into my house like this. Get out. I will not. I command you to leave my house. Ladies, ladies, please. Madame Sand, I challenge you to a duel. With bonnet feathers, I suppose. Now I know I'm going somewhere else. Fight it out, ladies. I can't listen to it. Now, again, I say, I challenge you to a duel. You fool. You have the fool to think you could pull the wool over my eyes. All right. All right, I'll accept your challenge. And I have the privilege of choosing the weapon. And I choose fingernails. Good enough for me. Defend yourself, Madame Sand. You defend yourself. Here I go. You! That is probably the only duel ever fought by two women over a man with fingernails. Can you imagine that? And now, as I said a few moments ago, we're going to play detective with Franz Liszt's Libestraum. I'll have the orchestra play a few bars of it, and you try to think of a popular tune of some years back that is almost identical in harmony and melodic pattern. Listen carefully now. Did you catch it? If you did, good for you. If you didn't, you won't have to tear your hair in exasperation because here is the popular tune. It's crooning. Now it's time to turn you back to your own station announcer and until we meet again, this is Lindsay McHurry saying goodbye now.