Stockdolloger considerable of a fool, and that
now he knew it—that was a fact.

The fire roared, the sparks flew up the
chimney, and the great bellows blew fiercely
one April evening, and Colonel Quagg and
his anvil were in fierce dispute about a red
hot horseshoe. The colonel had the advantage
of a hammer that Tubal Cain might
have wielded when he fashioned the first
ploughshare; but the anvil was used to hard
knocks, and stood out against the blacksmith
bravely. Indeed, if a certain metallic vibration
was to be taken into account, the anvil
had the best of it; for it had the last word.
Only the unfortunate horseshoe came to grief;
and, like the man between two stools who
came to the ground, was battered into all
sorts of shapes between the two disputants.
Suddenly, 'Zeek, the bellows-blower, ceased for
a moment in his occupation, and remarked,

"One o' them, colonel, top o' the hill. On
a hoss. Legs as long as a coulter."

"Twankeydillo! twankeydillo! " * sung out
Colonel Quagg in great exultation. "Ile
'Zeek, and plenty of it for Jack Strap, the
crittur is getting as rusty as Old Hundred."

* "Twankeydillo" is the refrain of an old country
blacksmith's song.

The fatal strap being iled rather more liberally
than usual, the colonel grasped it in his
mighty hand, and passed out of the smithy door.

He saw, coming towards him down the hill,
a long-legged, yellow-faced man in black,
with a white neckcloth and a broad brimmed
hat. He bestrode a solemn-looking white
horse with a long tail. He had but one spur
(the rider) but it was a very long and rusty
spur. In his hand he carried a little dog's-
eared book; and, as he rode, he sang, quite
softly, a little hymn that ran something like
the following .—

   "We are marching through the gracious ground,
    We soon shall hear the trumpet sound;
    And then we shall in glory reign,
    And never, never part again.
           What, never part again?
           No, never part again.
           No never, never, never, &c.
    And then we shall, &c."

Colonel Quagg waited till the verse of the
hymn was quite finished, and the horseman
had got to within a couple of yards of his
door, when he called out in a terrible voice.

"Hold hard!"

"Brother," said the man on the horse,
"good evening and peace."

"For the matter of that," responded
Colonel Quagg, ''rot! Hold hard, and git out
of that hoss."

"Brother? " the other interrogated, as if
not quite understanding the command.

"Git out, I tell you," cried the blacksmith.
"Legs and feet! Git out, you long-tailed
blackbird. Git out, for I'm riz, and snakes
will wake! I want to talk to you."

The long man slid rather than got off his
horse. It was, indeed, Brother Zephaniah
Stockdolloger; for his face was quincier
than ever, and, as he descended from his
steed, he shut his eyes and expectorated.

"Now," said the blacksmith, seating himself
on the horse-block in front of his dwelling,
and giving a blow on the ground with
his strap that made the pebbles dance.
"Where do you hail from ? "

"From Punkington city, brother,"
answered the reverend Zephaniah.

"And whar are you a goin' tu?"

"To Rapparoarer city."

"And what may you be goin' for to du in
that location?"

"Goin' on circuit."

"What!"

"Lord's business, brother."

Colonel Quagg shook out the strap to its
full length, and passed it through his horny
hand.

"There was a brother of yours," he said
sententiously, "that went to Rapparoarer
city on Lord's business last fall. He passed
this edifice, he did. He met this strap
close by here. And that strap made him
see comets, and dance like a shaking Quaker,
and feel oncommon like a bob-tail bull in
fly time."

There was something so dreadfully
suggestive in the position of a bob-tailed bull in
fly time (the insects frequently kill cattle
with their stings) that brother Stockdolloger
wriggled uneasily.

"And I du hope," the colonel continued,
"that you, brother, aren't of the same
religion as this babe of grace was as met the
strap as he was riding. That religion was
the Grace-Walking religion, and that religion
I always lick."

"Lick, brother!"

"Lick. With the strap. Dreadful."

"Colonel Goliah Quagg," said the minister,
"for such, I know, is your name in the
flesh, I am a preacher of the Grace-Walking
connection. Humble, but faithful, I hope."

"Then," returned Colonel Quagg, making
an ironical bow, "this is the strap with
which I am a going for to lick you into
sarse."

"Brother, brother," the other cried, shaking
his head, "cast that cruel strap from out
of thine hand. Close thine hand, if thou
wilt, upon the hammer of thy trade, the
coulter of thy plough, upon a pen, the rudder
of a ship, the handle of a lantern to light men
to peace and love and good-will; but close
it not upon sword of iron, or bludgeon of
wood, or strap of leathern hide. For, from
the uplifting and downfalling of those
wicked instruments came never good; but
rather boiling tears, and bruises and blood,
and misery, and death."

"Now look you here," the blacksmith
cried, impatiently. "Talk as long as you
like; but talk while I am a licking of you.