association. Mr. Potts remembered the first umbrella that was brought
into Boston. He always carried one that might have been the first, it
was so venerable, yet whole and decent, like an old gentleman in good
preservation. It was a green silk one, with a plain, mahogany handle,
and a ring instead of a ferrule, and very large. Discoursing of
umbrellas, we came upon a cow. Mr. Potts was fond of cows--grateful to
them--always spoke of them with respect. This particular cow inhabited
a small paddock by the roadside, which was enclosed by a Virginia
fence, and contained very little grass, and no provision for shade and
shelter. So the cow stood in the sunshine, with her head resting on
the fence, and her tongue lolling out of her mouth, and her large,
intelligent eyes fixed on the far distance, where a herd of kine were
feasting knee-deep in a field of clover, beside a running brook,
overshadowed by magnificent walnut trees.

"Poor thing!" said Mr. Potts; and he stopped short and looked at the
cow.

The cow looked at Mr. Potts. One had evidently magnetically influenced
the other.

"She is a female, like the lady we encountered," said Mr. Potts,
"but," added he, with a burst of feeling, "she has no parasol!"

The assertion was indisputable. It was a truism, cows are never
provided with parasols,--but then great men are famous for uttering
truisms, and we venerated Mr. Potts for following the example.

"It is now twelve o'clock!" said Mr. Potts, consulting his repeater.
"At half past four, the shadow of the buttonwood will fall into this