"How beautifully she's turned this sentence about your talents," sez he.
"Yes," sez I, all of a twitter inside, but cool as a cucumber for what he knew. "Yes, purty well, considering, but look a here now, I'll bet a cookey you can't turn that into fust rate English as soon as I can, and I'll give you the fust chance tu."
The chap larfed agin, and sez he, "If you'd a said fust rate Yankee I should a gin right up tu once, but I ruther think I can cum up to you in English."
"The proof of the pudding is in eating the bag," sez I.
"Wal," sez he, "I can but try;" so he looked at the paper, and read it off jest as easy as git out.
"Miss Elssler's compliments to Mr. Jonathan Slick, and hopes that he will do her the honor to accept a seat in a private box at the theatre this evening, where she performs in Nathalie and the Cachuka." Then he went on with a grist of the softest sodder that ever you heard on, about my talents and genius, and the cute way I had of writing about the gals, that put me all in a twitteration; but he read so fast that I couldn't ketch only now and then a word sartin enough to write it down, and if I could it would make me feel awful sheepish to think Judy White would ever see it, so the least said, the soonest mended.
"Wal," sez I, sort of condescending, when the chap had got through, "I give up beat—you've done it as cute as a razor. I raly could a parsed the words as you went along. Mebby you might have tucked in a few more long words, but all things considered, it aint best to be critical, so I guess I may as well agree to owe you the cookey." With that I went to my room agin.
Your affectionate son,
Jonathan Slick.