CHAPTER XXVII.
MINSE PIE AND DREEMS.—TERRIBLE RETRYBUSHUN.—WOT'LL OVER
TAKE A GOOD MENNY.—VIRTUE RECEIVES ITS REWARD.
I guess the wurry of collecktin yesterday afternoon muster wurked upon my mind, cos, last nite, I dremt a dreem, wot'd maid each seprate hare on the heds of every delikent subskriber stand on end, and sing out “Pay up your noosepaper bill, old feller, if yer dont warnt a skorschin in the dubius hereafter.”
Ma and Pa was out, cos it was prayer meetin nite at our church, so I went ter bed urley, cos I was frade wen they cum home, they'd miss the hull minse pie wot I'd ete.
I'd just bout got ter sleep, wen I smelt a orful smell, surgestiv of a straw hat revivin shop, wen they burn sulfir and brimstone, I looked down and behold, I seen a cort room, with a lot of lawyers and clurks sittin round a table, and the judge in a pulpit wot over looked them. The peepel all looked like Barnum's skellyton man, ony they didnt have no skin over there bones, and there eyes was maid of fire balls and eech of em had a long tail, like a snake. Purty soon the judge sed the court was open for bisness, and the sargent at arms brot in a feller all dressed up with a gold wach and big charm wot I reckernized as one of our ded beet subskri-bers wot'd dide last weak.
The judge looked him all over in a com-plermenterry way, and ast him if he'd alwus lived a onhest and uprite life.
“Yer onher,” sed he, “I've given of my substanse to the poor; I've luved my nay-bor as myself; I've surved for ten years as Warden of a fashunubble church, and tride to the best of my knowlege and beleef to do rite.”
“Yer onher,” sed the prosercutin turney, wot I reckernized as the ex-religio-jurnalistick edittur of a defunckted alliance noosepaper, “May I ast the prisner a questshun?”
“You may,” sed Judge Satan, for it was his infurnissimo himself.
“Prisner at the bar,” sed the turney, “Did you pay your subskripshun to the Buster 'fore you checked your baggage thru to Hay dies?”
“No, sir,” sed the prisner, “I did not. I never thot it was perticklar, cos editturs aint like other mortels, enyway, and I never knowd it was a sin to beet em if you culd.”
“Yes, sir, yer onher,” said the prosercutin 'turney, “he confesses his gilt, and I find, by lookin over the reckord, he ows the Buster offis for 8 years' subskripshun besides a hull string of free advertisin wot the edittur giv him outer goodness of hart. Not only that, but I notis in the day book that jest wun week 'fore he departed he ordered his paper stopped, cos he was opposed to surportin', by his munny, a Dem-mercratick candydate for Guvner. You see, yer onher, there is nothing left for you but to pass sentense on the prisner.”
“Prisner at the bar,” sed the Judge, “this yere cort sentenses you to hard laber shuvlin' flames at a tempyrature of 6,000 degrees, for 10,000 yares, durin' all wich time you will sing 'I want to be a angel, And with the editturs stand!' Shurruf, conduct the prisner to furnace number 561, next to Gittoes.”
Soon as he'd gone, a cullered gentleman was brot in, and in ansur to there quest-shuns as to his morral standing he sed:
“Jedge I knoes I'se a hard cityzen, and I've done gone and sinned purty nigh all the sins wot I know'd of. Steelin' fouls, hookin' nickles outer the contrybushun box, 'propriatin' millyuns wot I'd no legal rite and titel to, gettin' converted at camp meetin' so as I culd mash wun of. them purty sistern, and other offenses too numer-ickel to menshun, but if this yere cort'U giv this nigger a sho, I'll try to leed a dif-frent life.”
“Prisner, did you ever tak a noose-paper?” sed the Prosercutin' Turney.
“Yes, sar; I'se skribed for the Christshun Advercate for 'bout six yares, and I've payed it up in advanse for most a yare to cum.”
“Bobby, my boy,” sed the cort to his rite hand man, “go order the cook, to kill the fatted ram, and prepare a bang up lay out, cos this here cullurd brother is a man, molded after my own hart. Shake, my man,” sed he, shovin his rite boney hand to the cullured feller's, “and after we've feested, and viserted my privat opra house, and taken in the new skellyton bailey at-trackshuns, I'll driv yer thru my subteranean domminyuns, fore you tak the xpress for Skie stashun, and you bet you'll say this here devil aint as bad as he's painted, cos he knoes how to onher a distingushed guest.”
Then the seen vanished from my vishun, and I woke up, hollerin with a pane in my programme, and ma had ter get me a dose of brandie and ginger, outer the flask, wot pa carries, when he goes a fishin.