When I joined him, for I was now willing to do anything, he was apologetic again. “'Tis a short acquaintance,” he said, “but may I also beg your razor? Quick as I get out of the National Fly I am going to register my new label. First there will be Uncle Sam embracing the world, signifying this mixture is universal, then my name, then the word Stropine, which is a novelty and carries copyright, and I shall win comfort and doubtless luxury. The post barber at Fort Bayard took a dozen off me at sight to retail to the niggers of the Twenty-fourth, and as he did not happen to have the requisite cash on his person I charged him two roosters and fifty cents, and both of us done well. He's after more Stropine, and I got Pullman prices for my roosters, the buffet-car being out of chicken a la Marengo. There is your razor, sir, and I appreciate your courtesy.” It was beautifully sharpened, and I bought a box of the Stropine and asked him who the lady was. “Mrs. Porcher Brewton!” he exclaimed. “Have you never met her socially? Why she--why she is the most intellectual lady in Bee Bayou.” “Indeed!” I said. “Why she visits New Orleans, and Charleston, and all the principal centres of refinement, and is welcomed in Washington. She converses freely with our statesmen and is considered a queen of learning. Why she writes po'try, sir, and is strong-minded. But a man wouldn't want to pick her up for a fool, all the samey.” “I shouldn't; I don't,” said I. “Don't you do it, sir. She's run her plantation all alone since the Colonel was killed in sixty-two. She taught me Sunday-school when I was a lad, and she used to catch me at her pecan-trees 'most every time in Bee Bayou.”