 Two men bet more than two billion dollars on a building. Cows in Scotland wear sweaters. A herring is never seen alive. Can you imagine that? Yes, this is Lindsay McCary back again, ladies and gentlemen, with odd gleanings from libraries, newspapers, and encyclopedias. In just one and a half minutes, we'd all be back with proof of the statements made a few seconds ago. So until then, wait around, won't you please? I'm sure you must have all heard or read at some time of the custom of placing copies of current newspapers, coins, legal documents, pictures, phonograph records, and whatnot in the cornerstone of a new building. This custom may seem to us to be an estimable method by which to preserve for posterity the modes and manners of the day. It may appear to be a gladsome salutation to the erection of a new building, an auspicious recognition of the beauty of the handiwork of man. But the origin of laying a cornerstone is one of the most bloody in all the annals of antiquity. To prehistoric men, the raising of any edifice, whatever, was a direct act of impiety, a challenge to the wrath of their ancient gods. Man was born to live in caves to take shelter under trees as did his animal brothers. And when he presumed to erect any sort of building toward the heavens, he was flying in the face of possible vengeance from the gods. Ancient man was convinced this was true because so many buildings were struck by lightning, shattered by earthquakes, or ravaged by the elements. So to appease this supposed righteous wrath, human beings were buried alive under the foundations of any new structures. Thus our present custom of laying a cornerstone actually originated in the ghastly custom of human sacrifice. If you were the heir to either J.D. Stopler or R.E. Collins of Baton Rouge, Louisiana, you would be able to collect more than $2 billion. Yes, I said more than $2 billion, but you'd have to wait until the year 2432 to collect. Why? Well, it was back in 1932 that the two men were arguing about the new capital building in Baton Rouge, said Mr. Stopler. Say, that's what I call a building. For $5 million, they should have had a better one. Say, this one will stand for 500 years. That's how well it's built. 500 years? I'll lay you money, it won't. Put up or shut up? I've got $2.5 that says this building won't last 500 years. Here's my money that says it will. Well, the two men banked their bets under contract. Then in July 1938, they went to the bank and reaffirmed their contract, set an official of the bank to them. Gentlemen, I don't know whether you're aware of it or not, but that original stake has grown to $6.85. That's with 4% interest. Let's see. Bet doesn't get paid off until 500 years. That's added to 1932 then. The year 2432. Correct. And you've made provision for the bet to be paid to the heirs of the winner. That's right. Just as a matter of curiosity, sir, how much will that amount to in 2432 AD? I thought you'd ask that. Here are the figures. In the year 2432, the heirs or heir of the bet's winner will receive $2,084,495,605.22. Can you imagine that? Over $2 billion can be collected on a $2.50 bet. The $0.22 seems a little picky-unish, but who knows what $0.22 may buy in 2432 AD. To those who believe the crow or the raven to be birds of evil omen, here's a new story that will clinch that belief. It's rather weird and smacks of the supernatural, but I'm going to report the story just as I read it in a newspaper of February 27, 1931. It was in Sydney on that day that Justice Hugh Ross was addressing the prisoner at the bar, Alfred Beckett. A crowded courtroom hung on his words. It was made by this court. And it is now the duty of this court to pronounce sentence upon you, Alfred Beckett. Alfred Beckett, it is the judgment of this court that you are to be electrocuted. The crow. Here, the crow. There he is again. I must ask the spectators to remember that this is more serious than can be imagined. Alfred Beckett, I hereby sentence you to be executed in the electric chair in a state penitentiary. Yes, sir. There he is, right on schedule, too. Weird, that's what it is. Weird. Don't tell me it's just a coincidence, either. This is the fifth time. Hey, what's this all about? I'm a reporter. I'd like to get the story. What for? No one believed it if you printed it. Oh, I don't know. They might. What is the story? You're looking right up at it, son. That crow? What are you talking about? The crow. That's what we're talking about. This is the fifth time it's appeared. Well, what's so odd about a crow roosting in the tree and calling his head off? Son, that same crow was lighted in that same tree and called in exactly the same way five times now. And each time he did it, the judge was reading the death sentence against somebody. No. See, you don't believe it. Ask anybody. Last time he did it was when Justice Ross was sentencing Bing Anderson, that ski jumper to death. Maybe you'll call it coincidence, son. But people around these parts don't call it that anymore. Not after five times. Seems like that crow knows just when to perch in that tree and start calling. Listen to him. Yes, that same crow, according to the people of the region, roosted in the same tree and called at the exact moment the death sentence was being pronounced upon a prisoner during five death trials. Can you imagine that? From a San Francisco paper of March 2, 1917, comes the ultimate in animal highlights. Visiting the Golden Gate City at that time was Sir Francis Webster of Edinburgh, Scotland, who stated that, oh, but wait, let's have Sir Francis tell us. As owner of one of the finest dairies in Scotland, I've been asked what is the most modern step in dairy farming? Well, the latest is dressing the cows in knitted sweaters in winter to keep them warm. The sweaters are much like those made for humans, butting around the neck and chest. Unlike a blanket, they cannot be misplaced when the cow lies down. Knitted sweaters for cows. We wonder what Bossy would think when a couple of attendants were butting the latest turtleneck style around the bovine body. At any rate, it must have been startling to anyone to come suddenly upon a pasture dotted with daisy bells and flossies all decked out in what the well-dressed cow will wear. Can you imagine that? Here's an interesting bit of phrase origin. You've probably used the expression as dead as a herring, but do you know why you use it? Do you know just how dead a herring really is? Well, according to our sources of information, very, very few people have ever seen a live herring. Sailors and others who know the sea and its ways and the ways of its denizens will tell you that as soon as a herring is taken from the water, it dies instantly. Fishermen were quick to adapt this peculiarity of the herring to their everyday speech and added the expression as dead as a herring to their already colorful vocabularies. Of course, it was a short step from the fisherfolk to the landlubbers who wanted to know why the expression was used. They were told, and soon the phrase took hold. And nowadays, when we want to say something is particularly defunct, we say it's as dead as a herring. Can you imagine that? Well, now I imagine that most of you at one time or another have heard the old vaudeville wheeze that goes something like this. Say, Joe, did you know the two states are fighting over where I was born? No, is that so? Yep, New York says I was born in New Jersey and New Jersey says I was born in New York. Well, I'm sorry that we can't tell you the date of the origin of that gag, but none of the volumes in the archaeology department of our library go farther back than 5,000 BC. We can tell you, however, about an amazing woman over whose residents no fewer than four states fought at one time. This woman was the famous Hettie Green, who, when she died in 1917, left a fortune of $170 million. Despite the fact that she and her husband had lived and reared their children in Bellows Falls, Vermont, the state of New York began its fight to prove that it was actually in that state that Hettie Green had been a resident, for it was in New York that she had transacked her business almost daily. It was there that she kept her deposits. It was there that her husband had courted her. Vermont, on the other hand, claimed that she had retained her family homestead and paid taxes on it in that state. Counsel for Vermont also said that at no time had Hettie Green established legal residents in New York, whereas upon many documents she had given her residents as Bellows Falls. Suddenly, in the midst of this legal battle, two other states raised objections and claimed the residence of Mrs. Green, Massachusetts and New Jersey. Why all this embattlement over the citizenship of one woman? Were they all going to raise monuments to her memory? Well, not quite. It was a little matter of a transfer tax on her estate, amounting to $6 million. This was the amount that New York was claiming from her heirs. The case was carried on through to the U.S. Supreme Court and Vermont was ultimately declared to have been Hettie Green's legal residence, whereupon the heirs paid a tax of $52,000 and the case was closed. Can you imagine that? Comes time now for the music lesson. Now, but don't run away like that. We're not going to hold a metal gnome over your head or strike your fingers sharply with a ruler if you don't get things right. All we're going to do is play over a couple of songs and you can join in the community singing too. For, you all know the song. It's Hail, Hail, the Gang's All Here. But do you know where that jolly song of comradeship and convivial living may have come from? Well, listen to this for a moment. Of course you recognize that. It's part of the Anvil chorus from Verdi's Operatorial Trovatory. That first part contains more than just a hint of Hail, Hail, the Gang's All Here. Verdi wrote his Trovatory in 1853. Then about a quarter of a century later came Gilbert and Sullivan with their delightful and extremely clever series of musical comedies. Barbie it from us to suggest that these two geniuses of biting satire and musical wit would have accepted a suggestion from Verdi's opera, but holding that phrase from the Anvil chorus in your mind, listen to this selection from the Pirates of Penzance by Gilbert and Sullivan. Take another station, let it Of course, so perhaps from one, perhaps from the other, we got our song that is always sung when a few of the boys from the class of 93 get together for a little fun and frolic, and here's the way it might go. You have a tabloid history of Hail, Hail, the Gang's All Here. If you tear off the hide from the nearest elephant and write a short history of the Orient on it, we may send you another musical history a little later. But right now comes the time for me to turn you back to your own station announcer. Until we meet again then, this is Lindsey McCurry saying, goodbye now.