"I'm obliged to be or starve."
Think sez I, there's something that aint right here, and with that I begun to talk about the prices of the work, till I found out that with all her hard trying, it was more than she could du to arn a decent living. I begun to talk about hum and the time when I used to lend her my mittens when she was a leetle gal and her fingers were cold; but all I could do she wouldn't chirk up, but the other woman she got rale sociable and told me lots of stories about milliners and sewing girls, and as I was going hum I took it into my head that I'd write some on 'em out for the Express.
I mean to send one on 'em next week, but I raly think they ought to shell out more chink than they du for my letters, for I've had to study the dictionary two days a ready to sarch out long words, and I haint got half enough yit. I went to Cousin Beebe about it, and he said that mebby I'd better study some of the arly English writers before I begun to write stories, or else Washington Irving, Cooper, or some of them chaps might cut me out. I didn't jest know what he meant by arly writers, but made up my mind that it was them that begun to write when they was shavers, so I went into a bookstore and told them I wanted to buy a good book that was writ by some English youngster.
"Here's a work by Boz," say he, a handing down a big book; "he begun the youngest and writes the best of any of the folks across the water." I bought the book and went back to my office. Gaully-oppalus, but aint that Boz Dickens a smasher! if he don't beat all natur, nobody does. If I could write like him I raly should bust my dandy vest, I should be so puffed up. I kept on reading eenamost all night, and more than once I bust right out a crying afore I knew it. I swan to man that leetle Nell that he writes about is the sweetest, purtyest critter that anybody ever dreamed on. Oh! how I wish you would read the story about her, it's as good as the Pilgrim's Progress any day.
Then there's a mean, etarnal sneaking coot, a Mr. Quilp, that drunk bilin hot licker out of a skillet, and licked a poor peaked little critter—his wife—amost to death every once in a while, and when he hadn't her handy he took to cudgelling a wooden image. I swan to man, it made my blood bile to read about sich dreadful carryings on; but yit when I cum to consider and think on it all over, it kinder seems to me as if Boz Dickens had stretched his galluses a trifle, in writing out sich an allfired spiteful varmint. Human natur is bad enough, any how; but my paper is run out, and I aint but jest room to subscribe myself.
Your loving son,
Jonathan Slick.