hurry, you will agree,
For it isn't every patient that pays.

'Tis a rare, rare season,—so breezy and bright!
The dahlias, and even the squashes, are gay!
One wouldn't regret the cold at night,
If it wasn't so deucedly cold by day.

A wandering shiver inspires the doubt
Whether Indian Summer will come this year;
But its warmth can be felt when you don't go out,
And it's haze may be seen through a glass of beer.

Query for Romancers.

Used the Knights of the Round Table ever to get a "Square meal"?

SARSFIELD YOUNG ATTENDS A COUNTY FAIR.

DEAR PUNCHINELLO: From early ages, man has been a tiller of the soil. My ancestors were pretty much all in this line of business. My venerable great-grandfather-in-law came over in the Mayflower, and though not exactly a tiller himself, he is supposed to have had a good deal to do with the tiller department of that historic ship. Several of our folks have, from time to time, studied agriculture on New England town farms; which explains the passion I always had for such attractive out-of-door sports as stump-pulling, laying stone wall, and drinking very hard cider in the shade.

Being down at my uncle's this week, I have attended the Annual County Agricultural Fair. The managers wanted me to go on one of the committees, (whether it was plain Durhams, or short-horn needle-work, I don't this moment remember,) but I declined. I told them that, while I was ready to fill any vacancy that might occur in the "Committee on Bills upon their Second Reading," they really must excuse me elsewhere. I finally compromised by accepting a free pass, and agreeing to poke the ribs of all the cattle I could reach, just as though I was a bona fide official.

The show began yesterday with a grand concourse of all the farming people for miles around. Every farmer brought a pair of hands with him. The teams were innumerable; I had no idea it was such a teeming population. There was a procession of yokes of oxen, a brass band, the living skeleton, two fire engines, citizens generally, the Orator of the Day, more oxen, marshals in cowhide boots and badges, and a cavalcade. There may have been other oxen. I did not intend to omit them.

The Orator was announced in the bills as "a finished speaker." He managed to get himself so thoroughly mixed up with his subject, however, and knew so much about farming, which he was willing to disclose, that I soon saw he couldn't be safely set down as finished till late in the afternoon. I don't recall much of his address, further than that, when he got to talking about Fall Ploughing, he said: "In the hour of his country's peril, if fall he must, he would a little rather fall ploughing, than in any other way!" I think, too, he spoke of the Fates always smiling upon the farmer who improved his soil. I suppose he meant the phosphates.

To-day I have been all around the cattle pens. I never saw such stock before. Owing to their habit of staying out in the country the year round, they have a firm, sleek, animated look which the best guaranteed city stock fails to attain. One cow, from her impartial method of hoisting visitors out of her pasture, was labelled "The General Hooker."

There was a fine display of Dorking lambs and Jersey hens, while some bees of the Berkshire breed fairly divided the honors with a few very choice Merino pigs. A handsomely built North Devon chain-pump attracted much attention from the milkmen.

The turkeys, geese, ducks, poultry and other farm yard habitués, though cooped up in one corner, did all they could to make the show a success.

The products of the soil were heaped up in the richest profusion. This is a great raising county. No community raised their quota of substitutes more rapidly, during the war. Rows upon rows of corn, of barley, rye and oats [like most modern Serials,] seemed as though they would never come to an end.

Some early squashes were pointed out to me. I understood that they were gathered at four o'clock in the morning. This is nothing. I distinctly remember picking up watermelons, when a schoolboy, much earlier than that.

The butter, cheese, and bed quilts, were all of the finest texture. Everybody took a first premium.

Among the newly patented inventions I noticed "The JOHN MORRISSEY Smasher," "The Swamp Angel Sheller," and a lovely piece of mechanism called "The Just One Mower."

There was the usual horse trotting from morning to night, both days, with pool selling, from which, I presume, agriculture derived great benefit.

I say nothing of the other side-shows, for (with the exception of ALEXIS ST. MARTIN,) I never heard of one that was worth going across the street to see.

Yours truly, and yours rurally,

SARSFIELD YOUNG.

OUR PORTFOLIO.

PARIS, THIRD WEEK OF THE REPUBLIC, 1870.

DEAR PUNCHINELLO: I concluded I would leave Paris for Tours last week, as the refusal of Life Insurance Companies to take war risks made me apprehensive for the temporal welfare of the youthful TINTOS in case I should be untimely called hence. It was a wise resolution, but a few trifling obstacles, to which I shall refer, prevented me from carrying it out.

WASHBURNE advised me, as the safest means of escape, to adopt the character of an American tourist, with which disguise he thought the Gallic cast of my features would not materially interfere. I took the hint, and, assuming my scrip and staff, set forth by way of the Neuilly gate towards Courbevoie. It was after nightfall when I reached the bridge that crosses the Seine in that neighborhood. A garde mobile was pacing over the crest of the slight acclivity that rises near its eastern extremity.

As I approached he came to a halt, and challenged me sharply.

"Qui va là?"

"C'est moi," I answered, (with a very decent accent which I had cultivated by the daily use of a mild decoction of alum-water—an application which I can cordially recommend to Americans who do not naturally possess that peculiar "pucker" of the lips essential to the correct pronunciation of the French language.)

"C'est moi, mon ami," I repeated.

"The countersign," said the garde.

"What countersign?" said I, remembering to my consternation that I had forgotten to secure that important credential.

The sentry brought his piece to that position which usually precedes the order "Take aim." I got back a few feet—the situation was too close.

"Mon ami," I ventured to observe, "that ain't the way we treat noncombatants in America."

"The countersign," reiterated the garde, still holding his chassepot in the previous threatening manner.

I looked up. The stars were in the quiet sky, and the new moon was just sinking beneath the bold outline of Mount Valerien. The surge of the Seine against the stone piers of the bridge could be distinctly heard. The scene was unspeakably tranquil, not to say mournful, and I said to myself, "Is this a night for assassination?"

Again I looked up, and I saw the gleam of two more bayonets at the other end of the bridge. Thereupon I said to myself, "This is not a night for assassination."

"The countersign," for the third time, proceeded from the armed Apollyon in front of me. I grew familiar.

"Come now, my good friend, this little business of mine requires some dispatch. During the war in America—"

The click of the hammer of the sentry's rifle interrupted me. I felt uncomfortable. I had been out in the night air many times before, but I never knew it to be so disagreeably chilly. It climbed in behind my shirt collar, travelled down my back with a shivering sensation, and culminated in a regular ague when it reached my knees. With a terrific effort I calmed myself, and opened on the soldiers again. "During the war in America—" There are occasions in a man's lifetime when the mere fact of his tongue cleaving unexpectedly to the roof of his mouth is no evidence of cowardice. I had unquestionably reached that eventful period of my existence, but I also possessed physical energy to try once more.

"My good, kind friend, I was going to say that during the war in America—"

"Oh! d—n your war in America!" roared the sentry, levelling his rifle full at me.

There is no American living who would sooner resent an insult to his native land than myself, and at such a crisis I felt that within me which might rise at any moment and crush the foul calumniator. But I reasoned to myself that I would not take the life of this man, now. I would wait awhile. It was only too evident he was angry, and he might cool off and apologize. Yes, that was the best course for me to pursue. Accordingly I ran rapidly over in my mind a little speech, and, turning to him, spoke thus:

"Rash, impetuous man—"

L A T E R.

Thanks to the persistent efforts of my dear friend WASHBURNE, I have just been released from the guard-house after three hideous days of incarceration. His is a heart that I may truthfully say yearns toward the unfortunate. I consider him the crowning glory of American diplomacy in Europe. Language is inadequate to express the feelings of one who regrets that his sex forbids him to sign himself

Your weeping MAGDALEN, DICK TINTO.

A Toothsome Con.

Why should dentists be entitled to class with artists? Because they all draw.

NEWSPAPER PERILS.

The local reporter of a Boston daily gives us the following:

"On Wednesday morning, as the early freight train on the Old Colony railroad neared the bridge in Quincy, THOMAS ELLIS, a brakeman, raised up for the purpose of throwing off a bundle of newspapers, when he was struck by the timbers of the bridge and knocked senseless upon his car. He wan saved from rolling to the track by TIMOTHY LEE, a paper boy who was upon the train."

We are sorry for ELLIS. But he ought to be thankful for one thing,—he has a mission. He need not ask, like ANNA DICKINSON: "Why was I born?" It is all settled that he was "raised up" for the purpose of throwing off newspapers. Now, although he missed it this time, we have no doubt he is ordinarily as successful in that line as the most improved Lightning Press could be. Should he, unfortunately, continue senseless, PUNCHINELLO suggests that THOMAS devote himself to "throwing off" editorial articles for the Sun,

It was very noble in TIMOTHY LEE so promptly to come to the rescue. But,—hold! PUNCHINELLO will not be imposed upon: at this moment are there not grounds for suspecting this "paper boy" to have been merely a "man of straw"?

APPROPRIATE.

Pompey, (sawing.) "HOW YOU GWINE TO VOTE, SAM?—I'SE BIN saw BY DE 'PUBLICAN PARTY."

Sambo. "BOFE PARTIES SEE'D ME, AND SO I'M GWINE TO SPLIT."

A Sporting Con.

Why is the famous horse DEXTER like a musical conductor?

Because he beats Time.

Theatrical Item.

Since Colonel FISK, Jr., floored that other manager, he is known in the profession as the great floor manager.

Good News for the Birds.

In Westchester county a fine of $25 is hereafter to be levied upon each jackass in human form who shoots birds on Sunday. It is to be hoped that the little bills may thus be saved from holiday havoc by persons who object to incurring large ones.

CONSTERNATION OF THE EDITORIAL STAFF OF THE NEW YORK SUN, (INCLUDING THE OFFICE BOY,) ON SEEING CHIEF EDITOR PECKSNIFF DANA DECLINING TO ACCEPT A HEAVY BRIBE OFFERED HIM TO PUBLISH A MENDACIOUS PARAGRAPH ABOUT A RESPECTABLE CONTEMPORARY.

A NEW SENSATION WANTED.

The reprehensible haste with which various European nations terminate their wars is a source of annoyance to every one. Hardly have we acquired a decided taste for news of some transient war or other, when the conflicting parties judge that they have had enough of it, and thus an avenue of enjoyment is summarily closed.

It is as though one's natural aversion to tomatoes had gradually changed to liking, and then an untimely autumn frost had come, to anticipate the gardener and the air-tight can.

These foreigners are so different from the Americans!

During the Rebellion—a comparatively staid and respectable affair—a correspondent, after the first two years, became so expert as to anticipate battles, and knew as much about war as a general. War news and buckwheat cakes enlivened the matutinal meal. The chances pro and con gave a zest to conversations else intolerably dull. The war was an Institution.

But see how it is in Europe.

In '66, they spirted away for six weeks and stopped. And now, after a similar splurge, they have as good as stopped once more. The correspondents just sent over by our "enterprising" newspapers, are hardly yet recovered from their sea-sickness. Just as they begin to sharpen their pencils, presto! the war is over, and the occupation of these hardy gentlemen is gone.

Can nothing be done about this? If a protest—"firm and dignified"—would really do no good, what about some new excitement, which, as every one knows, we must have or perish! Will no other jealous contiguous nations fall out? Must we fall out ourselves? Election is still a good way off, and, really, we don't see what's to be done. Fights are few, and suicides are falling off. The Indians are disgustingly peaceful, and even the Mormons have subsided. It is two years and over to the next Presidential election; and there is no more cholera.

Really, this is too bad! We must muse on the situation for a season, and, meanwhile, shall confidently expect something or other to turn up almost any day.

PUSS AS A PORT-MONNAIE.

The following eccentric freak of a cat is reported in a daily paper:

"A two dollar note was taken to one of the Lebanon banks for redemption last week, which had been taken from the intestines of a cat, in Montgomery county. The cat had stolen the note and swallowed it, was caught and shot, and the note thus recovered."

There is nothing new in getting notes "from the intestines of a cat." PAGANINI got no end of notes from catgut. So do VIEUXTEMPS, and OLE BULL, and TOM BAKER, and others too numerous to mention. The cat that swallowed the greenback should have been added to BARNUM'S "Happy Family," however, instead of being sacrificed to Mammon. With its two-dollar bill it would have been a formidable rival to the Ornithorynchus Paradoxus, or beast with a bill, of Australia.

NEW PUBLICATIONS.

A TREATISE ON THE BANKRUPT LAW, FOR BUSINESS MEN. By AUDLEY W. GAZZAM, Solicitor in Bankruptcy, Utica, N. Y. New York: GEORGE T. DELLER, No. 95 Liberty Street.

This book contains not only all the latest amendments to the Bankrupt Act, with copious notes covering the latest English and American decisions, but it also has a prefatory chapter of "Hints to Persons contemplating Bankruptcy." PUNCHINELLO, feeling a deep interest in the welfare of The Sun, The Free Press, and