High Life in New York / A series of letters to Mr. Zephariah Slick, Justice of the Peace, and Deacon of the church over to Weathersfield in the state of Connecticut

by Ann S. Stephens

"Any news a stirring?" sez I.

"Nothing particular that I know on," sez she.

I changed feet agin.

"I ruther thought it was a going tu rain, but I guess it won't now," sez I.

"No, I ruther think not," sez she.

We stood stock still a minit, and then I put my hankercher in my coat pocket agin, and, sez I—

"I swanny, Miss Beebe, you've got a grist of harnsome gals here to-night. I'll be darned if I aint eenamost in love with some one on 'em."

"I'm sure you ought to be," says she, a puckering up her mouth, "you don't know how much they have been a talking about you. I declare you've got to be quite a lion since you took to writing, cousin Slick."

"A what?" sez I.