As Governor of Mauritius, [Theodore] Hook ruled for five years before being accused of embezzling 12,000 pounds of public funds. He was dismissed from his post and returned to England, where he told friends that his dismissal was ‘on account of a disorder in my chest.’
— Victor Margolin, “The Pun Is Mightier Than the Sword: A Short History of Paronomasia,” Verbatim, Summer 1980
As the U.S. tariff act of June 6, 1872, was being drafted, planners intended to exempt “Fruit plants, tropical and semi-tropical for the purpose of propagation or cultivation.”
Unfortunately, as the language was being copied, a comma was inadvertently moved one word to the left, producing the phrase “Fruit, plants tropical and semi-tropical for the purpose of propagation or cultivation.”
Importers pounced, claiming that the new phrase exempted all tropical and semi-tropical fruit, not just the plants on which it grew.
The Treasury eventually had to agree that this was indeed what the language now said, opening a loophole for fruit importers that deprived the U.S. government of an estimated $1 million in revenue. Subsequent tariffs restored the comma to its intended position.
From Lee Sallows, a crossword grid that describes its own contents:
(Thanks, Lee!)
In the best collective use,
Geese afoot are gaggles
(Even when one goose gets loose,
Falls behind and straggles);
Skein‘s the word for geese in flight.
Turtledoves form dools.
Barren‘s right (though impolite)
For a pack of mules.
Starlings join in murmuration,
Pheasants in a rye,
Larks in lovely exaltation,
Leopards, leap (they’re spry).
Ducks in flight are known as teams;
Paddings when they swim.
Herrings in poetic gleams
Please the wordsmith’s whim.
Cats collect into a clowder,
Kittens make a kindle.
Sloths of bears growl all the louder
As their forces dwindle.
Lapwings gather in deceit,
Apes convene in shrewdness,
Mares in stud (an odd conceit
Bordering on lewdness).
Foxes muster in a skulk,
Squirrels run in drays
While collectives in the bulk
Make up word bouquets.
— Felicia Lamport
When H.P. Re of Coldwater, Mich., died in 1931, his claim to have the world’s shortest name was up for grabs, and the Associated Press held a sort of contest to find his successor. J. Ur of Torrington, Conn., expressed early confidence because he had no middle initial, but, AP reported:
C. Ek and J. Ek, brothers from Duluth, promptly entered the lists as cochampions. Mrs. V. Ek, not to be outdone, claimed not only the woman’s title, but the mixed doubles championship. A former Duluth policeman said his name was C. Sy.
Then Fairmount, Minnesota, entered E. Py, farmer; Clinton, Iowa, put forward C. Au, J. Au, and W. Au, triple threats; Indiana offered Ed Py, inmate of Newcastle Jail; and Indianapolis made a poor try with Fix Ax.
In the end the palm went to Aaron A of Chicago, who went by A.A., a name that AP noted “leads all others in the Chicago telephone directory, alphabetically as well as longitudinally.” A’s ancestors had been jewelers in Saxony, and a philologist speculated that the surname derived from an old German word for river.
The names of 13 Jane Austen characters are hidden in the following lines as anagrams of complete consecutive words. For example, “was ill” yields WALLIS. (The names to be found are women’s first names and men’s surnames, as in Austen.) In most cases the anagrams are hidden in two words, but twice they’re in three, once in four, and once in a single word. What are they?
The other day when I was ill
And not a soul I knew came nigh,
Jane Austen was my daily fare —
I rather liked to be laid by.
Each line or page enthralls me quite,
I there can let no man deride;
I may be ill as a wight can be,
But, Jane with me, am satisfied.
In bed my ease is nil, yet I’ll
Be lying therein at any rate
Content. With Jane to chortle at
How can I rail at Fate?
In Marseille’s Salvator Hospital, the French word for “dream” seems to hang in the middle of a corridor.
It’s an anamorphic illusion — the letters are painted on the walls and ceiling to appear in perspective as an ordinary font when viewed from the correct angle.
Leonard J. Gordon discovered this remarkable cryptarithm in 1990 — each letter corresponds to a digit:
NINE × FOUR + FIVE = FORTYONE
9895 × 3074 + 3865 = 30421095
(Leonard J. Gordon, “Literary Cryptarithmetic by Computer,” Word Ways 23:2 [May 1990], 67-70.)
-ESS changes POET to POETESS, -ETTE changes BACHELOR to BACHELORETTE, -INA changes CZAR to CZARINA, and -INE changes HERO to HEROINE. What suffix changes a word from feminine to masculine?
Write the word CESAROLITE in a circle and then trace out the letters in its anagram ESOTERICAL — the result is a perfect 10-pointed star:
Only 5.7 percent of anagrams in English are “maximally shuffled,” meaning that no letter retains its original neighbors. And even those rarely produce such pleasing symmetry when they’re diagramed like this. This is the largest “perfect” star anagram found in a systematic search by Jason Parker and Dan Barker; for more, see the link below.
(Jason Parker and Dan Barker, “Star Anagram Detection and Classification,” Recreational Mathematics Magazine 12:20 [June 2025], 19-40.)
