The last of the cattle-shows is seen; The monster squash to the cows is fed; Everything's brown that once was green, Except tomatoes, and they are red. The drowsy citizen hates to rise; The hash may be cold, but so is the air: 'Tis heaven to slumber, for now the flies Are less affectionate, and more rare. And who is the busiest man we see? 'Tis the Doctor, dashing by in his chaise; And well may he hurry, you will agree, For it isn't every patient that pays. 'Tis a rare, rare season,--so breezy and bright! The dahlias, and even the squashes, are gay! One wouldn't regret the cold at night, If it wasn't so deucedly cold by day. A wandering shiver inspires the doubt Whether Indian Summer will come this year; But its warmth can be felt when you don't go out, And it's haze may be seen through a glass of beer. * * * * * Query for Romancers. Used the Knights of the Round Table ever to get a "Square meal"? * * * * * SARSFIELD YOUNG ATTENDS A COUNTY FAIR. DEAR PUNCHINELLO: From early ages, man has been a tiller of the soil. My ancestors were pretty much all in this line of business. My venerable great-grandfather-in-law came over in the Mayflower, and though not exactly a tiller himself, he is supposed to have had a good deal to do with the tiller department of that historic ship. Several of our folks have, from time to time, studied agriculture on New England town farms; which explains the passion I always had for such attractive out-of-door sports as stump-pulling, laying stone wall, and drinking very hard cider in the shade. Being down at my uncle's this week, I have attended the Annual County Agricultural Fair. The managers wanted me to go on one of the committees, (whether it was plain Durhams, or short-horn needle-work, I don't this moment remember,) but I declined. I told them that, while I was ready to fill any vacancy that might occur in the "Committee on Bills upon their Second Reading," they really must excuse me elsewhere. I finally compromised by accepting a free pass, and agreeing to poke the ribs of all the cattle I could reach, just as though I was a _bona fide_ official. The show began yesterday with a grand concourse of all the farming people for miles around. Every farmer brought a pair of hands with him. The teams were innumerable; I had no idea it was such a teeming population. There was a procession of yokes of oxen, a brass band, the living skeleton, two fire engines, citizens generally, the Orator of the Day, more oxen, marshals in cowhide boots and badges, and a cavalcade. There may have been other oxen. I did not intend to omit them.