“I hain't never worshiped _no calf_, Samantha Allen. That would be the last thing _I_ would worship, and you know it.” (Josiah wus very lame on his left leg where he had been kicked by a yearlin'. The spot wus black and blue, but healin'.) “You have blanketed that calf with thick patriotic excuses; but I fear, Josiah Allen, that the calf is there. “Oh!” says I dreamily, “how the tread of them calves has moved down through the centuries! If every calf should amble right out, marked with its own name and the name of its owner, what a sight, what a sight it would be! On one calf, right after its owner's name, would be branded, 'Worldly Honor and Fame.'” Josiah squirmed, for I see him, but tried to turn the squirm in' into a sickly smile; and he murmured in a meachin' voice, and with a sheepish smile,-- “'Hon. Josiah Allen. Fame.' That wouldn't look so bad on a likely yearlin' or two-year old.” But I kep' right on. “On another would be marked, 'Wealth.' Very yeller those calves would be, and a long, long drove of 'em. “On another would be, 'Earthly Love.' Middlin' good-lookin' calves, these, and sights of 'em. But the mantillys that covered 'em would be all wet and wore with tears. “'Culture,' 'Intellect,' 'Refinement.' These calves would march right along by the side of 'Pride,' 'Vanity,' 'Old Creeds,' 'Bigotry,' 'Selfishness.' The last-named would be too numerous to count with the naked eye, and go pushin' aginst each other, rushin' right through meetin'-housen, tearin' and actin'. Why,” says I, “the ground trembles under the tread of them calves. I can hear 'em whinner,” says I, fillin' up the coffee-pot. “Calves don't whinner!” says Josiah. Says I, “I speak parabolickly;” and says I, in a very blind way, “Parables are used to fit the truth to weak comprehensions.” “Wall!” says he, kinder cross, “your potatoes are a burnin' down.” I turned the water off, and mashed 'em up, with plenty of cream and butter; and them, applied to his stomach internally, seemed to sooth him,--them, and the nice tender steak, and light biscuit, and lemon puddin' and coffee, rich and yellow and fragrant. [Illustration: THE GOLDEN CALVES OF CHRISTIANS.] He never said a word more about politics till after dinner. But on risin' up from the table he told me he had got to go to Jonesville to get the old mare shod. And I see sadly, as he stood to the lookin'-glass combin' out his few hairs, how every by-path his mind sot out on led up gradually to Washington, D.C. For as he stood there, and spoke of the mare's feet, he says,-- “The mare is good enough for Jonesville, Samantha. But when we get to Washington, we want sunthin' gayer, more stylish, to ride on. I calculate,” says he, pullin' up his collar, and pullin' down his vest,--“I lay out to dress gay, and act gay. I calculate to make a show for once in my life, and put on style. One thing I am bound on,--I shall drive tantrum.” “How?” says I sternly.