It was at the Universalist State Convention, held at Herkimer, N. Y., in September. Rev. Dr. Bolles was there—charming bookish old Dr. Bolles who is not so very old; then what if he was, seeing that his heart is the heart of youth! Dr. Bolles he met there a certain Literary Fellow who he had not seen for a Long While. Now the Literary Fellow he loves old Dr. Bolles and Dr. Bolles he likes the Literary Fellow, and not having met for a Long While, they embraced each other there on the sidewalk; then they went into the tavern called the Farmer Tavern to get dinner. They paid for the dinner at the desk; they paid a youth wearing a dimun pin, in good silver coin and then walked arm in arm into the dining room. The landlord was there seating his “guests.” Now the landlord’s name is Jay but it should be December, for he is as chilly a man as ever edited an intercollegiate chip-munk magazine. He is tall and stooping, with a yellow chin whisker; he is wheezy, and discerning (nit) and has a brass watch chain and one wisp of hair, that looks like dry hay, on his Number Six head. There was a convention in town and a horse race beside, and consequently the landlord was busy as a monkey catching fleas. “Here _you_, sit here, and you fellow, _here_,” he bawled, snatching out two chairs at different tables. “We can’t do _that_,” said Dr. Bolles, “you see we haven’t met for a Long While and we must sit together, otherwise we would have no appetite!” “You set where I tell you!” cried the hustling, bustling landlord. “We paid in advance!” said Dr. Bolles wofully. “Yes, in our innocence we paid in advance.” “Say, you fellers better git!” shouted the Ramrod. “He can’t take a joke, can he?” said Dr. Bolles, turning to the Literary Fellow. “No, he stood under an umbrella when God rained humor.” “What a recruit he’d make for a Fallstaff Army?” “Ah, your pencil—thank you—I’ll sketch him!” By this time the fifty people in the dining room were in a roar of laughter and the landlord was in a red rage. “Here, you two fellows—go down and git your money back if you can’t be peac’ble! You mustn’t raise no row in _my_ house.” The Literary Fellow sketched. “Come, we will go and get our money back,” said Dr. Bolles, sighting and snapping an imaginary kodak at the landlord. And out they walked, arm in arm, with stately dignity. They got their money back and once outside the tavern that is called the Farmer Tavern they laughed a loud peal of merriment at the landlord who stood under an umbrella when the heavens rained Philistine jokes. And the moral of this true tale is, don’t gibe a landlord who has a brass watch chain and a billy-goat whisker. And far away across the moor echoed the piteous cry of the curlew. * * * * *