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“I do not wish to bicker, sir,” said Johnson.

“Nor I don’t want to, sir,” said the deacon, “but when a man calls me a toad, a mean, despicable toad –“

“Well, well, never mind,” said Mr. Bulkley; “you are all too excited now; go home again, and wait patiently; on Saturday evening next, I will have prepared and sent to you a written opinion of your case, with a full and free avowal of most wholesome advice for preserving your church from desolation and yourselves from despair.” And the 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.

“Repair the fences!” muttered the moderator at length.

“Build them strong and high!” echoed Deacon Potter.

“Take special care of the old Black Bull! ” growled half the meeting.

Then another pause ensued, and each man eyed his neighbor in mute mystery.

A tall and venerable man now arose from his seat; clearing his voice with a hem, he spoke:

“Brethren, you seem lost in the brief and eloquent words of our learned adviser. To me nothing could be more appropriate to our case. It is just such a profound and applicable reply to us as we should have hoped and looked for, from the learned and good man, John Bulkley. The direction to repair the fences, is to take heed in the admission and government of our members; we must guard the church by our Master’s laws, and keep out stray and vicious cattle from the fold! And, above all things, set a trustworthy and vigilant watch over that old black bull, who is the devil, and who has already broken into our enclosures and sought to desolate and lay waste the fair grounds of our church!”

The effect of this interpretation was electrical. All saw and took the force of Mr. Bulkley’s cogent advice, and unanimously resolved to be governed by it; hence the old black bull was put hors du combat, and the church preserved its union!