Whoever was accustomed, a third of a century ago, to travel over the road from Warren, O., to Meadville, Pa., will remember a wayside inn, whose sign bore in German character the euphonious name of “Aughfeultwangher House.” The house itself, like its name, was of German origin, a genuine example of a Dutch farm house, bespeaking both comfort and thrift. The occupants were of the same name as the house, the proprietor being an honest, quiet, well-meaning man, with no special personality. Not so his better half, however. She was a character—a decided personality. Kind and generous, she had a temper, which when let loose became a very tornado. She was neat and tidy as a housekeeper, and unexcelled as a cook. A regular embodiment of piety and profanity; of sympathy and execration; of wit, repartee and scurrilous invective, her very off-handedness made the house immensely popular with drovers and road-men, and it was quoted from the prairies of the west to the Quaker City itself; and many is the man who has traveled an extra five miles to gain the hospitable roof of the “Awfultricker House,” as it came to be called by those who failed to accomplish the German of it. As an illustration of the without and the within of the place, a little personal experience is introduced. At the end of a bleak November day, I found myself taking the advice of a friend and making an extra exertion with jaded beast, in order to enjoy the hospitality of the “Aughfeultwangher.” Knowing the reputation of the hostess I greeted her with: “Well, Auntie, can you keep a stranger to-night?” Looking at me with a quizzical expression and evidently pleased at the appellation used, she replied: “Dot is von long face to keeps all in von house.” “O, well, never mind, I can let a part of it stay in the barn.” “Vell, I guess we growds es all in dem house,” and running to the back door, she called out, “Fater, fater, here bist einer mann, unt ein pferd vas Shineral Shackson rote. Nehms du es dem stolle vilst Ich das abend essen for dem manne erhalten.” Obedient to the summons the host came at once, and took the wearied beast, whilst I was ushered into the little bar-room, whose well-filled box-stove was sending out a genial warmth, and away went the sprightly dame to prepare supper, whose savory odors soon filled the house. Directly the door into the great family kitchen opened, and I did not wait for a repetition of the hearty “Coome Meister, your supper bist ready.” Entering, I found the room seated after the German style, and was greeted with the sight of a great, open fire-place, with its bake-oven and pot-hole attachment. Upon the table were rich slices of ham, eggs, bread, such as only a genuine German woman can bake, and other things in abundance. When I was seated and the good woman had poured out a cup of delicious coffee, she took a chair opposite, and after eying me a moment, inquired: “Vell, Meister, var from you come?” “From Ohio, auntie.”