Just before the train stops at the crossing in Tyner City, it passes a dilapidated looking farm house on the brow of a hill. It passes so close that the smoke from the stack of the locomotive mingles with the smoke from the chimney of the farm house. This is the residence of the Queen's father-in-law, a constable of Polk Township; and is no better nor worse than the majority of residences which are planked up, patched up and thrown together in Tyner City.

Back of the house, and upon a street which might be named Bull Run Avenue, for the want of a better name, stands another house. There are three or four more houses in Bull Run Avenue, but this particular house will have a history and a story entwining itself around its rafters and shingles, so long as the rafters and shingles shelter a historical personage dwelling therein.

Its a house with a front door to go in and a back door to go out, like the other houses in Tyner. It has a window facing the road, through which you may see who is on the road, and another looking back on the road, through which you can who is coming up the road. If it were not so constructed, it could not be a Tyner City home. Tyner City is as peculiar in its architecture as it is peculiar in everything else. Your Gothie, and Dorie, and Ionic styles find no favor with Tyner City people. Give them a house with a window or a hole in every corner, through which they may peep and watch everybody else peeping, and you satisfy the patricians and plebians of Tyner. And besides you have vividly impressed on your mind an original style of architecture, which you can hand down in Indiana annals as the style Tynerian.

Jump over the fence, which performs the double purpose of outlining the boundary of the front yard and keeping out the pigs. Never mind pulling out the stick, which fastens the gate a la Tynerian. Rap at the door. A shuffling of feet, and the barking of a poodle betokens