“I heerd you speak on those momentous subjects in Liverpool,” said she.
“And arter that when I read the affectin’ account of your death in a strange land, I cried.”
“Cried?” said I, “I’m much obleeged to you, but there’s nothin’ to cry for as I know.”
“So there be’nt,” said she, puckerin’ up her pretty little mouth; “but tell me, now, is this reely you?”
“I don’t know,” said I, “whether its reely myself or not, for I haven’t seed myself—how do I look?”
She naterally blushed and answered:
“Ansom.”
That was too much for me. I took her round her waist and whispered—I wont tell you what. She shook her head so that the ringlets fell downall over her neck like the ashes from a tobaccy pipe, and in a mighty reprovin’ manner said:
“Artemus Ward, I am a poetess!”
(By Jupiter! that was a stunner.)