THE CROSS MAN.
The cross man goes thru life like a sore-headed dog, followed by flies.
He iz az sour az a pot-bellyed pickle, and like a skein of silk, iz alwus reddy for a snarl.
He iz like an old hornet, mad all the way through, but about what, he kan’t tell, tew save hiz life.
Everyboddy at home fears him, and everyboddy in the street dispizes him.
He mistakes sullenness for bravery, and bekauze he feels savage, everyboddy else must feel humble.
Thare iz no grater coward in the world than the cross man, nor none eazyer tew kure.
He iz eazyer tew kure than the stummuk ake, for one good knok down will do so.