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 la?"

"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.