When a man gits perfektly kontented, he and a clam are fust couzins.
Contentment iz a kind ov moral laziness; if thare want ennything but kontentment in this world, man wouldn’t be any more of a suckcess than an angleworm iz.
When a man gits so he don’t want ennything more, he iz like a rackcoon with his intestines full ov green corn.
Contentment iz one ov the instinkts, i admit it tew be happiness, but it iz kind ov spruce gum chawing happiness.
We all find fault with Adam and Eve, for not being kontented, but if they had bin satisfied with the gardin ov Eden, and themselfs, they would hav been living thare now, the only two human beings on the face ov the arth, az innocent as a couple of vegetable oysters.
They would hav bin two splendid specimens ov the handy work ov God, elegant portraits in the vestibule ov heaven, but they would not hav developed reazon, the only God-like attribute in man.
When a man iz thoroly kontented, he iz either too lazy to want ennything, or too big a phool tew enjoy it.
I hav lived in naberhoods whare everyboddy seemed to be kontented, but if the itch had ever broke out in them naberhoods, the people would have skratched to this day.
PERFEKTLY SATISFIED.