“Is the Grand Panjandrum with you, Venerable Warden?” said the figure on the dais. “He is, Most Venerable Patriarch.” “Let him enter.” At this the Venerable Warden left the room, and in a few moments reappeared, ushering in the personage alluded to as the Grand Panjandrum. The Grand Panjandrum was an aged gentleman of color, whose wrinkled face was enlivened by an irrepressible comicality of expression, which not even the solemnity of this occasion could quell. He was arrayed in a college cap and gown, with a Master’s red hood and long bands. His face was a study. He was evidently doing his best to exhibit the deepest solemnity of expression, but his droll, keen, twinkling eyes darted furtively about, with an intense relish of the scene before him, and his efforts at gravity were sadly disturbed by the broad grin which, from time to time, would flash out irrepressibly over the dark background of his face. After a few furtive glances he bowed; and then, with an audible chuckle, he awaited further proceedings. “Grand Panjandrum,” said the figure on the dais, in an impressive voice. “Yes, sah.” “Yes, what?” said the other, in a tone of rebuke. “Yes, sah,--yes, mos’wossifle,” he added, correcting himself. A grin broke out over his face, which, however, was instantly checked by a demure cough. “Grand Panjandrum, you have heard our map-dates.” “Mandates?” said the other, in a puzzled tone. “Yes,--orders.” “Yes, sah, mos’ wossifle.” “Have you carried out the instructions of the Venerable Brethren?” “Yes, sah, mos’ wospeful.” “Did you get the turkeys?” “Yes, sah.” “How many? Six?” “No, sah.” “What! not six?” “No, sah.” “How many, then?” “Ten,” said the other, with a chuckle and a grin of triumph. “O-h!” said the first speaker; while a titter ran round among the others. “H’m! Very well, and what else?” “Spring chickens.” “How many?” “Twenty.” “Ah! Very well. And how?” “Broiled, sah.” “Any tongue?” “Yes, sah, three.” “And the ham?” “Yes, sah.” “Nuts?” “Yes, sah.” “Raisins?” “Yes, sah.” “Crackers? Cheese? Figs? Cake?” “Yes, sah, mos’ wossifle.” “And what about the drink? Have you prepared the lemonade?” “No, sah.” “No! Why not?” “No lemons, sah.” “That’s bad. And there is no drink, then?” “Yes. sah. Ginger beer.” “Ginger beer. H’m! that will do,” said the Venerable Patriarch, solemnly. “How much have you?” “Ten gallons, mos’ wossifle.” “What else have you?” “Ten mince pies, twelve apple pies, a basket of tarts, a tin dipper, an iron pot, an iron spoon,” said the Grand Panjandrum, rapidly enumerating the various items. “Fact,” he continued, carried away by the ardor of the moment, “I’se got most nigh eberyting. Gracious sakes! you’ll open your blessed eyes, mind I tell you! But what are you gwine to do about de bread and butter? Tell you what, boys! you’ve clean forgot de most ’portant of all.” “Silence!” cried the Venerable Patriarch, in an indignant voice, rapping his sword against the leg of the table.