I looked in the direction indicated, and saw what seemed to be a drove of cattle slowly approaching and enveloped in a cloud of dust. I sauntered along to meet them, and in a quarter of an hour at a sharp turn in the road, I encountered the strangest literary gathering that it has ever been my fortune to behold; and when I say this I do not forget that I have frequented some of the most brilliant literary and artistic salons that New York has ever known. At the head of the cavalcade marched Mr. S. S. McClure, the noted philanthropist, magazine editor, and founder of the model village of Syndicate. He carried a pair of bagpipes under his arm, and presented such a jaded and travel-stained appearance that I was involuntarily reminded of the Wandering Jew. Behind him marched a band of strange-looking men, attired in kilts and wearing broad whiskers, long bristly hair, and bare knees. A collie dog, panting and dust-covered, but still sharp-eyed and vigilant, trotted along beside them to prevent them from straying away and losing themselves in the New Jersey prairies. As soon as Mr. McClure’s eyes fell upon me a bright smile lit up his face, and he stopped short in the road, raised the pipe to his lips, and burst into a triumphant strain of Scotch music. Those that followed him paused in their course, and with one accord began a masterly saltatorial effort, which, I have since learned, enjoys great vogue in Glasgow and Dundee under the name of the “Sawbath Fling.” While they danced the collie squatted on his hindquarters and watched them with bright, sleepless eyes. “McClure,” I cried, “in the name of all that is monthly and serial, what does this mean?” “Ford,” he replied solemnly, as he advanced and took me by the hand, “you know that I have published Lincoln and Napoleon and Grant and Elizabeth Stuart Phelps Dodge and Company Ward, but I have something far greater than all these for the year 1897. Can you not guess the meaning of this brave cavalcade that you see before you?” “What! Have you actually secured Professor Garnier’s ‘Equatorial Conversational Class’ as contributors to your monthly? That is, indeed, a literary triumph!” “Equatorial nothing,” retorted the great editor, testily. “I have just imported a herd of blooded Scotch dialect authors under a one year’s contract. We had to walk all the way out from Hoboken, because I only agreed to pay their fares to that point, and you know it’s thirty cents from there out, and a Scotchman always likes to walk and see scenery when he can. The result was that I had to walk, too, for fear Scribner or some of those pirates would coax them away from me, and I swear that if it hadn’t been for that dog of mine I don’t think I could have got them out here at all.” At this moment the authors resumed their march, for they were eager to reach their journey’s end, and we followed behind them, with the faithful collie trotting contentedly along.