Because of what I do for work, I have an understandable interest in newspaper headlines (and just so you know, we writers rarely provide the headlines atop our stories; editors write them).

I like headlines that are sly, sublime and a bit irreverent, such as the tabloid headline announcing the death of Grateful Dead founder Jerry Garcia. In bold block letters, it said, "Head Dead Head Dead," but upon further review, it would have been just as plausible to go with "Dead Head Head Dead." I like headlines that are profound, like "The Eagle Has Landed," and those that are unfounded -- I'm thinking here of "Dewey Defeats Truman" -- but much like Jay Leno, I have a special affinity for headlines that are simply and inadvertently confounding.

Consider these gems, (and give them time to sink in):

"Queen Mary Having Bottom Scraped." "Farmer Bill Dies in House." "Grandmother of Eight Makes Hole in One."

Tortured syntax notwithstanding, headlines are meant to summarize the contents of stories, and it's even better if these abstract phrases -- you really can't call them sentences -- are written in such a way that they will entice readers to read the story beneath them.

That's what happened when I came across the following headline in The Manchester Daily Mirror and American from March 12, 1921. Tell me if you were thinking the same thing I was thinking when I read this:

"Tiny Shoe Factory is Owned and Operated Here by Local Woman."

I was thinking that there was a factory in Manchester devoted to the manufacture of tiny shoes -- plausible, if they were for dolls or little kids -- but upon reading the story, I discovered that, rather than a story about tiny shoes, it was a story about a tiny factory.

The headline did its job, however -- it got me to read the story -- and I was delighted to read about "Mrs. Doris Lavigne, a Manchester girl born and raised here (who) is probably the only woman owning and running a shoe factory in New England."

In fact, she did make children's shoes -- "sizes five to two," The Mirror reported -- and her "little factory on Chestnut Street (was) equipped with only six sewing machines and a cutting machine with two girls to assist her."

When you consider the events that prompted her to open her own shop -- "Her husband died leaving her with four little children," The Mirror stated -- you can see why reporter Lillian Ainsworth described Doris as "one of the most courageous little women who ever walked the streets of Manchester."

Speaking of intriguing headlines, I can't see the phrase "A La Lady Godiva" without needing to read more.

That one is from The Manchester Union dated March 24, 1894, when readers discovered that "The residents of River Street were horrified to see a woman running through the streets a la Lady Godiva, barring a cape which was thrown over her shoulders.

"The woman, wild-eyed and with her hair streaming, ran swiftly and uninterrupted to St. Raphael's Church, where she entered," The Union noted. "Following her closely were relatives with her clothes, and when they reached the church, they found the woman kneeling in attitude of prayer. She was quickly clothed and returned to her home in a hack."

Well, in a hack and in a tizzy, I would say, but I digress.

Another headline that caught my eye: "A Quare Duckin'." This was one of those stories -- it was from the July 20, 1894 edition of The Union -- where the reporter tried to tell the tale by using the colloquial words of the subjects, spelled phonetically for the fullest possible Irish and Italian immigrant effect.

Thus, we had the very Irish Mrs. Hannah Sweeney seeking relief on a day "when it was hot enough to light a cigar with the atmosphere."

As she sat outside her tenement at 85 Central St., "A neighbor with a garden hose was removing an accumulation of mud from the hoofs of a horse. He laid it down after completing the cleaning of the southwest hoof."

That's when Mrs. Sweeney decided to take the hose and use it on her dusty windows. Unfortunately, her hosing coincided with the passing of a horse-drawn cart. Holding the reins was a dozing peddler of small wares -- "possibly dreaming of sunny Italia," the paper noted -- "when suddenly "" Swissh! -- a stream of water struck him plumb in the neck and started him from his noon-day reverie."

After the peddler unleashed a string of Italian expletives, Mrs. Sweeney headed to The Union in a pre-emptive effort to insure her safety.

"Shure, an' I didn't mean any harrum," she stated. "I was just a turnin' the water on my windys, an accidentally it went all over the Oytalian. I come to tell you, because if anything happened to me, you would know who did it. He swore he'd be revinged. Those Oytalians are dangerous ain't they?"

Naturally, it was the lyrical Mrs. Sweeney who described the watery encounter as "A Quare Duckin,'" which, according to deep etymological research, means "a queer ducking."

In closing, I say keep an eye out for what we in the business sometimes refer to "bum heads."

If you're lucky, you might come across head-scratchers like "Kids Make Nutritious Snacks," or "Stolen Painting Found by Tree," or ...

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John Clayton is the author of several books on Manchester and New Hampshire, including his newest title, "Remembering Manchester." His e-mail is jclayton@unionleader.com.