"It is a Man!" I answered, in a gruff vois.
"I don't b'lieve it!" she sed.
"Then come down and search me," I replied.
Then resumin' my nat'ral voice, I said, "It is your own A. W.,
Betsy! Sweet lady, wake! Ever of thou!"
"Oh," she said, "it's you, is it? I thought I smelt something."
But the old girl was glad to see me.
In the mornin' I found that my family were entertainin' a artist from Philadelphy, who was there paintin' some startlin water-falls and mountains, and I morin suspected he had a hankerin' for my oldest dauter.
"Mr. Skimmerhorn, father," sed my dauter.
"Glad to see you, Sir!" I replied in a hospittle vois—"Glad to see you."
"He is an artist, father," sed my child.