NO. II.-BUB IN PERIL.
How are you?—You have published my letter, and I am glad to see that nigger Molly cannot smother my cry to the public—if I don't give her scissors, it will be because she smothers me outright. You must know Molly keeps two bottles filled with liquid, one of which she administers to me, and the other to herself, and they both have about the same effect, only hers smells worst. Hers she calls whiskey, mine cordial. The other morning Molly set me down on the floor, beside a pan of water, and commenced taking comfort from her bottle, and I, feeling feverish, commenced comforting myself by dabbling in the pan until I was all wet; Molly perceiving this picked me up to slap me, but her cordial floored her. I should have been glad of this, only she nearly killed me in her fall, and because I screamed, as any baby would do, she clapped her black lips to mine, smelling horribly as they were of whiskey, and kept in my breath until I was as black in the face as herself. I yelled at this double outrage, and she silenced me by pouring a double dose of cordial down my throat, which threw me into a state of insensibility, from which I awoke almost dead. My mother asked to see me, and when she heard me moaning, she said “the ittle bessed dear is suffering wis its too-sys.” I aint suffering with my teeth—I'm suffering with nigger Moll's nursing.
Bub.