Here the conservative Kentucky chap wanted to stop the fight. Says he: "Mortimer will be forever alienated if he loses any more of his tail. I protest against the dog's teeth," says he; "for they'll render future reconciliation between the two impossible. Let him use his paws alone," says the conservative chap, reasoningly, "and he won't injure Mortimer's constitution so much." "You're too late with your talk about conciliation, my noble Cicero," says I. "It's the cat's nature to show affection for his young ones, even, by licking them, and Mortimer will never be convinced that Bologna cares for him until he has been soundly licked by him." "Ah--well," says the Kentucky chap, vaguely, "let hostilities proceed." Finding that the enemy had cut off a portion of his train in the rear, Mortimer quickly massed his four columns and precipitated them upon the head of Bologna's two front divisions, succeeding in destroying a bark half launched, and driving him back four feet. "Hurroar for Mortimer!" says the Kentucky chap; and then he burst into the Conservative Virginia National Anthem: "John Smith's body lies a-mouldering in the grave, 'Twas him that Pocahontas risked her father's wrath to save; And unto old Virginia certain Chivalry she gave, That still go scalping on!" "Calm your exultation, my impulsive Catiline," says I, "and behold the triumph of Bologna." Undaunted by the last claws of the foe's argument, my boy, the frescoed dog hurled back the torrent of invasion, and, with a howl of triumph, charged headlong upon Mortimer's works, routing the foe, who retreated under cover of a cloud of fur. I looked at the conservative Kentucky chap, my boy, and I could see by his expression that it would be useless for me to ask of him a contribution toward rewarding Bologna with a star-spangled kennel. He still felt neutral, my boy. I had intended to remain in Paris all the week; but on receiving a telegraphic dispatch from the General of the Mackerel Brigade to attend a Strawberry Festival he was about to give in this city, I hastened hither. For I am very fond of the gay and festive strawberry, my boy, on account of its resemblance to one of the hues in our distracted banner. The Strawberry Festival was given in an upper room at Willard's, and the arrangement of the fruit would have provoked an appetite in a marble statue. At short intervals around the table were strawberries in fours, supported by pedestals of broken ice, which was kept in position by a fluid of pleasing color, and walled in by a circular edging of thin glass. Strips of lemon and oranges garnished the rich fruit, and from their midst sprang up a dainty mint plant, and a graceful hollow straw. When the festival was in full operation, my boy, the General of the Mackerel Brigade arose to his feet, and waved his straw for silence. Says he: