The musketer iz a short lived bug, but don’t waste enny time; they are alwuss az reddy for bizzness az pepper sass iz, and kan bight 10 minnitts after they are born just az fluently az ever.
Thare iz people in this world so kontrary at heart, and so ignorant, that they wont see enny wisdum in having musketers around; i alwus pitty sutch pholks—their edukashun haz been sorely neglekted and aint level.
Wisdum iz like duks eggs—if yu git them, yu hav got tew sarch for them—thare aint no duks in theze benighted days that will cum and la eggs in yure hand—not a duk, Mr. ——, not a duk.
The musketo is a soshul insex; they liv verry thick amungst each other, and luv the sosiety ov man also, but don’t kontrakt enny ov hiz vices.
Yu never see a musketer that was a defaulter; they never fail to cum to time, altho thousands looze their lives in the effort.
The philosophers tell us that the muskeeters who can’t sing won’t bight; this information may be ov grate use to science, but aint worth mutch to a phellow in a hot nite whare muskeeters are plenty.
If thare ain’t but one musketer out ov ten that kan bight good, that iz enuff to sustain their reputashun.
The philosophers are alwus a telling us sumthing that iz right smart, but the only plan they kan offer us tew get rid ov our sorrows iz to grin and bear them.
They kant rob one single musketer ov hiz stingger by argument. I say bully for the muskeeter!
The muskeeter iz the child ov circumstansis in one respekt—he can be born, or not, and liv, and die a square deth in a lonesum marsh, 1600 miles from the nearest nabor, without ever tasting blood, and be happy all the time; or he kan git into sumboddy’s bed-room thru the key-hole, and take hiz rashuns reglar, and sing sams ov praze and glorificashun.