The mosquito has a proboscis like an elephant, only not so large. It will, however, look nearly as large under a good microscope.
A Minneapolis Tribune photographer followed the Donald F. Anderson family into the wilds of northern Minnesota and captured the images below for Picture magazine.
Daniel Hoyt telephoned City Clerk Knott yesterday that he had shot a coyote "at 30 rods" from his house, 395 Twenty-third avenue southeast, and that he would appear soon at the city hall to claim a bounty of $7.50.
Before Fixit, there was Mr. Fixit, a quirky amalgam of Dear Abby, Google and T.D. Mischke. He deftly answered questions about food stains, home repair and city ordinances. But he also offered advice to the lovelorn and offbeat philosophical musings. And if you had a question of an extremely personal nature, he'd send you a response by mail, provided you sent him a stamped, self-addressed envelope. An interactive feature of the first order!
Thanks to Prohibition, criminal gangs plagued the Twin Cities in the 1920s and '30s. A corrupt St. Paul Police Department provided safe haven to gangsters and crooks of the era, as long as they agreed to stay out of trouble while in the city. The task of keeping the bad boys in line fell to "Dapper Dan" Hogan, a speakeasy owner and underworld leader. On December 4, 1928, Hogan, "whose word was known to be law among many criminals," was killed by a car bomb in the garage behind his St. Paul home. Rival gangsters were the likely culprits, but his murder was never officially solved.
"Women of the flats stood guard over their thresholds while police attempted to eject them for failure to pay rent on the grounds on which the dwellings stand. A near-riot was halted when a second court order was served on police, ordering a stay of the ejections."
"The designs this year," said a dealer in speaking of the trade, "are if anything, prettier than ever; everything runs to flowers, the old style of paper lace with bleeding hearts and dagger accompaniments have almost gone out of date. Some of the more elaborate like this one (holding up a magnificent design of plush) come us high as $20, but a girl has got to be pretty solid to receive as costly a token as this."
In far harder times — the Great Depression — a blood-covered plate teeming with germs was apparently an acceptable valentine.
The Vikings trailed Cleveland by a point, 23-22, and Tommy Kramer had just launched a pass from the Browns' 46-yard line into the right corner of the end zone, with four seconds showing on the scoreboard clock.
A Minneapolis sewer worker despondent over the abduction and death of his performing monkey braces himself for a far more painful loss.
A photo of Betty McClellan surrounded by her 10 children was featured in a four-column Wonder Bread ad in the Minneapolis Tribune in May 1950.
Thousands flocked to 31st and E. Lake Street in May 1905 for a preview of a new 10-acre amusement park called Wonderland. A Tribune reporter in attendance somehow captured the glittery excitement of the day without getting a single quote from the park's owners, visitors or employees.
The last time the Vikings shut out the Packers, I was a 12-year-old kid listening to the game on the radio in a living room in Richfield. The game, played at the Met, was not broadcast on local television. Here's the Minneapolis Star account of the fourth-quarter interception that led to Minnesota's winning field goal.
It was a wonderful suggestion from a reader, and the newspaper jumped on it with enthusiasm: Find impoverished children in need of Christmas cheer and match them with generous citizens who want to play Santa Claus.
A Tribune editorial correctly predicted that restoring the original name, "Mendoza," would not stick.
The Minneapolis Tribune once described it as "the one crop in Minnesota that never fails."
He "doesn't sing too well, and he doesn't play his white guitar too well, but he does have a lot of sex," one critic wrote after witnessing Jimi Hendrix play the Minneapolis Auditorium.
Ga-Be-Nah-Gewn-Wonce (variously known as Kay-bah-nung-we-way, Sloughing Flesh, Wrinkled Meat or plain old—well, really old—John Smith) was reputed to be 137 years old when he died. Whatever his precise age, his well-lined face indicates a man who led a long and full life. He had eight wives but no children. He fought, he fished, he counseled, he rode horses and trains, he appeared in moving pictures and he sold postcards. The Tribune's page-one obituary featured a two-column photo of Ga-Be-Nah-Gewn-Wonce.
Little is known about the Park Board girls' rifle team beyond what can be deduced from a Minneapolis Journal photo taken in about 1920.
"Just ask," a man-on-the-street photo feature, appeared in the Minneapolis Tribune from November 1946 until June 1964.