ez Dryden hez it, tho I bleeve, to keep off chills, in this country, they mix three and a half parts uv whiskey to one uv tea, the name uv Sumner wuz mentioned.
Mrs. Pogram to-wunst remarked that she didn’t want the name uv that ojus creecher spoken at her table.
“Why?” sed I, gratified at the ebulition.
“I hate him!” sed she, spitefully.
“So do I,” replied I; “but what hev yoo agin him, aside from his obnoxious political opinions?”
“Didn’t he marry a nigger?” sed Mrs. P., triumphantly. “Didn’t he marry a nigger—a full-blooded nigger? and hezn’t he hed nineteen yaller children, every one uv wich he compelled, agin their will, to marry full-blooded niggers? Didn’t he—”
“Mrs. P.,” sed this Illinoy store-keeper, wich his name it wuz Pollock, “do yoo object to miscegenation?”
“Missee—what?” replied she, struck all uv a heap at the word.
“Miscegenation—amalgamation—marryin whites with niggers.”
“Do I?” retorted she; “ketch a son uv mine marryin a nigger! They are another race; they’r beasts; and who’d marry em but jist sich men ez Sumner and them other Ablishnists?”