I peered cautiously through the kitchen-blinds, and, however unnatural it may appear, the lips of Eli Perkins and my hired girl were very near together. She sed, "You shan't do so," and he do-soed. She also said she would get right up and go away, and as an evidence that she was thoroughly in earnest about it, she remained where she was.
They are married now, and Mr. Perkins is troubled no more with the headache.
This year we are planting corn. Mr. Perkins writes me that "on accounts of no skare krows bein put up krows cum and digged fust crop up but soon got nother in. Old Bisbee who was frade youd cut his sons leggs off Ses you bet go an stan up in feeld yrself with dressin gownd on & gesses krows will keep way. This made Boys in store larf. no More terday from
"Yours
"respecful
"Eli Perkins,"
"his letter."
My friend Mr. D.T.T. Moore, of the "Rural New Yorker," thinks if I "keep on" I will get in the Poor House in about two years.
If you think the honest old farmers of Barclay County want me, I will come.
Truly Yours,