Reports received here early in the evening were to the effect that the town of Ralston had been swept from the map by the tornado of last evening. It was reported that from fifteen to twenty were dead and that fifty or more were injured. Buildings in the business district were reported destroyed.

In the face of persistent rumors that she had been killed in the storm Miss Clara Marco, a survivor of the Bellevue tornado, was at the ruins of her little house in Ralston Monday morning. It was stated on authority about the village that Miss Marco, who is 55 years of age, had been killed and her body found in the lake. Miss Marco smilingly denied the rumors, which arose on account of her absence. It appears that Sunday afternoon she went to Bellevue and spent the night with her sister. To this visit she probably owes her life.

Though she had lost nearly everything in the storm the aged woman was one of the most cheerful persons about the storm torn town.

“There is no use to cry over it now,” she said. “It is all over and though my little home is ruined I am thankful that I escaped with my life. This is my second tornado experience you know. I had a narrow escape in Bellevue and lost nearly everything I had. That stove there is about all that I saved from that wreck. That was five years ago. I did not want to build again in Bellevue so I came out here near the lake. Now everything is gone again.”

“But one has to take things as they come. I am glad my old stove is left anyhow. It looks so home-like even to see it still standing.”

Miss Marco was invited by a number of people to come to their homes and remain but she stoutly refused. She said she would live in the little shed back of the ruins of her house until such a time as she could build again.

She is of the order of the Marie Antoinette galaxy of beauties, and it would take Burkian eloquence to describe her goddess-like gait and the lofty carriage of her head. This latter she acquired at a Parisian finishing school, where she went before she was twenty, as before that time she had the drooping, shy look of a Marguerite. Old friends who recall the exquisitely fair, fragile girl of fifteen would hardly recognize her in the superbly poised young woman who looks more a princess than any daughter of the Hohenzollern, Guelph, and Hapsburg lines.

But whatever fairy godmother it was who presided over the cradle of Jennie Chamberlain, of Cleveland, O., she had undertaken her protection for life. Perhaps the fairy went over with her on the steamer; perhaps she had simply started the miracle of her beauty when Jennie was a baby, and knew her business well enough to be sure no further aid was required.

Guessers can take their choice; but it must have been an almost preternatural loveliness that sufficed to make all England stop on its sedate, self-contained way to acclaim Jennie Chamberlain, the unknown, the poor stranger from the States, as the most ravishing creature in woman’s form who had ever blessed them with the sight of womanly charms.

Hers is the regal and antique style of beauty; the tall yet rounded figure of some Grecian goddess, the features sufficiently irregular to redeem her face from any stern severity; her eyes large, deep, tender, lustrous; her hair of ebon blackness, with the rebellious curls that can redeem the plainest of faces.

A letter is before us asking our choice for the location of the World’s Fair. So many large and wicked cities spring before our gaze as we endeavor to cull them out properly that it seems well night impossible to fix the proper place and satisfy all competors. If we would say Oakes then some of the mild and willowy tempers of the Ellendale citizens would wax wroth and keep on calling us hard names. If we woulds say Ellendale, then there would commence a war of extermination in that crowded metropolis to see who should be at the head and front thereof. Ellendale has many good points in her favor for such a national affair; such as an endless expanse of unbroken prairie, plenty of thugs and plenty of room for improvement, both in the city and among some of her people. While we see plenty of reasons why the city of Ellendale should have this plum, yet we trust she will not push her claims too far, so far that we will be compelled in our letter to say friendly, though firmly, no. We think Ellendale has done pretty well thus far and ought to give Chicago a chance for this world’s greatest fair. Ellendale has been pretty fortunate and ought to be satisfied. Just think of it, she has got a public institution and a Flemington and Moore and yet with all of these she is covetous enough to want this big fair.

Hofstede’s campaign style is unpretentious, spontaneous, occasionally clumsy and throughly issue oriented. As his aides readily agree, Hofstede is at best an adequate speaker, who tends to speak in a clipped, nasal monotone. He is at worst reading a prepared speech and at his best in an informal, question-and-answer session.

John Smith’s house, blown away; Mt. Pettits house, badly damaged; Deacon Ford’s two houses, entirely destroyed; R.P. Kendall’s house, considerably damaged and windows blown in; Thos. Matteson’s windows blown in and house considerably damaged; Tim Clendin’s, blown away; James Harlin’s, entirely destroyed; A. Foster’s, blown away; A.P. Rhineforth’s, blown away; Mr. Cullinson’s, gone; the houses occupied by John Lee and Isaac Miller, entirely destroyed; Jimmy Johnson’s, badly damaged; John Whitman’s, gone; John Ross’, destroyed; I.W. Sargent’s, injured; Nathaniel Ellis’s residence, completely destroyed; Mr. Spaulding’s, a total wreck; Dr. Bodle’s, partially destroyed; Mrs. Gue’s, a total wreck; Mr. A.J. Preston’s, badly wrecked; Mrs. Griswold’s residence, a total wreck; Samuel Nelson’s injured; Thomas Shackley’s, a total wreck; S. Graham’s fine new residence, completely destroyed; Dr. Grinnell’s, at total wreck; Mr Agards, ruined; William Benson’s, partly tipped over; Mrs.Reed’s, unroofed; J. Sheridan’s, destroyed; J.O. Winterstein’s, flat with the ground; Mr. Buck’s, gone; Henry McCorrall’s, flat; J.G. Howard’s totally swept away; J.B. Isenberg’s totally destroyed; M.W. Hatchell’s a total wreck; W. Jenning’s, total wreck; C. Hobart’s injured; J. Worcester’s, destroyed; H.W. Wilham’s, roof gone; M. Chamberlain’s, house wrecked; M.P. Scott’s, blown fifteen feet; T. Sargent’s, tipped over; Mr.s Kuebel’s, completely destroyed; Hatch & Co’s business block unroofed; front part of Child’s livery stable carried away; the house of the late J.P. Clent is completely shattered; D.E.A. Clark’s is a bad wreck; Mr. A.J. Larrabee’s home is a crushed mass lying in the back yard.

The Basket Ball Game on last Thursday night, the 13th, was enjoyed by a goodly crowd. The rival fives—Festus High School vs. Twin City Stars, played a pretty game, the out come, 42 to 32, favor the Twin City Stars denoting. The High School lads, out sized by their heavier opponents in every way, put up a plucky exhibition and defeat cannot distract from them the laurel, “for in such victory there is glory; in such defeat, no disgrace.”

I have just this moment seen Col. Witherspoon, who is on his way home from the tripartite railroad convention of delegates representing respectively the Memphis and El Paso; Cairo and Fulton, and Mississippi, Ouachita and Red River Railroad Companies, recently he’d on the spot for the purpose of agreeing upon a junction of the three roads on the line between Texas and Arkansas. The object of the convention, he informs me, was harmoniously accomplished. The three roads unite at the line, southwest from this place, where the three companies have secured in equal portions a town site of 960 acres of land, and named it Texarkana.