Miller’s is a frame house that, from the fact of loose clapboards hanging to it, looks well ventilated. If it was ever painted, there is no evidence to show it; for the sides are as dingy as twenty years could make them. A two-story porch is in front, and before that a treeless, grassless yard. Miller looks like Rip Van Winkle. The last time we passed, he was carrying an armful of fodder to some starved-looking cows. It was 2 o’clock, and we had had no dinner. On inquiring whether our wants could be satisfied, he directed us to his “old woman.” One of our number unfastened the rickety gate, and walked towards the house. A vicious dog came forth with loud barking from a hole under the porch, where he had been premeditating an onslaught. The sight of a stone in the hand of the new-comer caused him to defer operations until a more convenient season. “Can we get something to eat here?” was asked of the woman who had appeared to call the dog under shelter. “I’ll see,” she said, and turned to go in. A line of bee gums on the sagging upper porch had already been observed by our forager, and consequently he was not taken by surprise when a swarm of bees alighted on his head and shoulders. Nevertheless, he was discomforted, and without waiting for the returns he struck in a straight line for the fence. The dog, with considerable alacrity, followed suit, and succeeded in securing a nip as he scaled the rails. The bees reached us all just at that time, and turning up the collars of our flannel shirts, we started our horses up the road like racers bearing down on the winning pole. This was our only attempt to call at Miller’s.