by
looking farmer who would have offered them, let us say, a notable
musical production called "Old Dan Tucker," exquisitely performed on a
tin whistle, in exchange for a good honest supper.

There was one man in particular--a fine, pompous citizen who came down
the street swinging his cane and looking as though the universe was a
sort of Christmas turkey, lying all brown and sizzling before him ready
to be carved--a fine pompous citizen who never realized how nearly Fate
with a battered volume of Montaigne in one hand and a tin whistle in the
other--came to pouncing upon him that evening! And I am firmly convinced
that if I had attacked him with the Great Particular Word he would have
carved me off a juicy slice of the white breast meat.

"I'm getting hungry," I said; "I must find Bill Hahn!"

I had turned down a side street, and seeing there in front of a building
a number of lounging men with two or three cabs or carriages standing
nearby in the street I walked up to them. It was a livery barn.

Now I like all sorts of out-of-door people: I seem to be related to them
through horses and cattle and cold winds and sunshine. I like them and
understand them, and they seem to like me and understand me. So I walked
up to the group of jolly drivers and stablemen intending to ask my
directions. The talking died out and they all turned to look at me. I
suppose I was not altogether a familiar type there in the city streets.
My bag, especially, seemed to set me apart as a curious person.

"Friends," I said, "I am a farmer--"

They all broke out laughing; they seemed to know it already! I was just
a little taken aback, but I laughed, too, knowing that there was a way
of getting at them if only I could find it.

"It may surprise you," I said, "but this is the first time in some dozen
years that I've been in a big city like this."

"You hadn't 'ave told us, partner!" said one of them, evidently the wit
of the group, in a rich Irish brogue.

"Well," I responded, laughing with the best of them, "you've been living
right here all the time, and don't realize how amusing and curious the
city looks to me. Why, I feel as though I had been away sleeping for
twenty years, like Rip Van Winkle. When I left the city there was
scarcely an automobile to be seen anywhere--and now look at them
snorting through the streets. I counted twenty-two passing that corner
up there in five minutes by the clock."

This was a fortunate remark, for