LX.

JOSH CHAWS HIS CUD.

Earthli glory is sum like potatoze on very ritch sile,—top plenty,—tater skase.

It aint so much trouble tew git ritch, as it is tew tell when we hav got ritch.

The most bitter sarkasm sleeps in silent words.

It is unkommon hard tew annihilate a man with words,—altho it is often undertook.