It was only last week that the General was in Jim Bolton's livery stable office asking Jim if he had any old ledgers, that the _Statesman_ office might have. He explained that he tore off their covers, cut them up and used the unspoiled sheets for copy-paper. In Bolton's office he met a farmer from the Folcraft neighbourhood in the southern end of the county, who hadn't seen the General for half-a-dozen years. "Why--hello General," exclaimed the farmer with unconcealed surprise, as though addressing one risen from the dead. "You still around here? What are you doing now?" The old man tucked the ledger under his arm, straightened up with great dignity, and tried not to wince under the blow. He put one hand in his shiny, frayed, greenish-black frock-coat, and replied with quiet dignity, "I am following my profession, sir--that of a journalist." And after fixing the farmer with his piercing black eyes for a moment, the General turned away and was gone. When we do something to displease him, he turns all his guns on us, though probably his foreman has to borrow paper from our office to get the _Statesman_ out. The General regards us as his natural prey and his foreman regards our paper stock as his natural forage--but they use so little that we do not mind. Once a new bookkeeper in our office saw the General's old account for paper. She sent the General a statement, and another, and in the third she put the words: "Please remit." The day after he had received the insult the General stalked grandly into the office with the amount of money required by the bookkeeper. He put it down without a word and walked over to the desk where the proprietor was working. "Young man," said the General, as he rapped with his cane on the desk. "I was talking to-day with a gentleman from Norwalk, Ohio, who knew your father. Yes, sir; he knew your father, and speaks highly of him, sir. I am surprised to hear, sir, that your father was a perfect gentleman, sir. Good-morning, sir." And with that the General moved majestically out of the office. X A Question of Climate