atrocious story is even told that once upon a time, when half shaven,
he chanced to pick up a newspaper, became absorbed in its contents,
forgot to complete his task, and went to court in this most absurdly
unsymmetrical condition. But, despite these personal eccentricities, a
more honest or capable judge has rarely been called upon to vindicate
the majesty of the law. Upon the bench none could detect a flaw in his
assumption of that dignity so intimately associated in all minds with
the judiciary, but, the ermine once laid aside for the day, he was as
jolly and mirthful as any of his frontier companions. Judge Bradford
was no advocate, but by the action of a phenomenal memory his large
head was stored so full of law as to emphasize, to those who knew him,
the curious disproportion between its size and that of his legs and
feet. These latter were of such peculiarly modest dimensions as to call
to mind Goldsmith's well-known lines, though in this case we must, of
necessity, picture admiring frontiersmen standing round while

Still the wonder grew
That two small feet could carry all he knew.

The judge's mind is of the encyclopædical type, and facts and dates are
his especial "strong holt." But his countenance fails to ratify the
inward structure when, pausing from a recital, he gazes upon your
reception of the knowledge conveyed with a kindly smile--a most innocent
smile that acts as a strong disposer to belief. Whether it has been a
simple tale of the early days enlivened with recollections of
pitch-trump and other social joys, or whether the performances of savage
Indians and treacherous half-breeds send a chill through the listener,
it is all the same: at its close the judge's amiable features wear the
same belief-compelling smile. Under its influence we sit for hours while
our entertainer ranges through the stores of his memory, pulling out