committee left, to await his issue.

   Now it chanced that Mr. Bulkley had a small farm, some distance from the town of Colchester, and found it necessary, the same day he wrote his opinion and advice to the brethren of the disaffected church, to drop a line to his farmer regarding the fixtures of said estate. Having written a long, and of course, elaborate "essay" to his brethren, he wound up the day's literary exertions with a despatch to the farmer, and after a reverie to himself, he directs the two documents, and next morning despatches them to their several destinations.

   On Saturday evening a full and anxious synod of the belligerent churchmen took place in their tabernacle, and punctually, as promised, came the despatch from the Plato of the time and place,—Rev. John Bulkley. All was quiet and respectful attention. The moderator took up the document, broke the seal, opened and—a pause ensued, while dubious amazement seemed to spread over the features of the worthy president of the meeting.

   "Well, brother Temple, how is it—what does Mr. Bulkley say?" and another pause followed.

   "Will the moderator please proceed?" said another voice.

   The moderator placed the paper upon the table, took off his spectacles, wiped the glasses, then his lips—replaced his specs upon his nose, and with a very broad

    grin

   , said:

   "Brethren, this appears to me to be a very singular letter, to say the least of it!"

   "Well, read it—read it," responded the wondering hearers.

   "I will," and the moderator began:

   "You will see to the repair of the fences, that they be built high and strong, and you will take special care

    of the old Black Bull

   ."

   There was a general pause; a silent mystery overspread the community; the moderator dropped the paper to a "rest," and gazing over the top of his glasses for several minutes, nobody saying a word.

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