He is a vine without enny tendrills—a fly drowned in sweet ile—a paper kite in a ded calm.
He lives as the butterflise do—noboddy kan tell whi. He is as harmless as a cent’s wuth ov spruce gum, and as useless as a shirt button without enny button-hole.
He is as lazy as a bread-pill, and has no more hope than a last year’s grasshopper.
He is a man without enny gaul, and a woman without enny gissard.
He goes thru life on his tiptose, and dies like colone water spilt on the ground.
THE JEALOUS MAN.
The Jealous Man iz alwus a-hunting.
He is alwus a-hunting for sumthing that he don’t expeckt tew find, and after he haz found it then he iz mad bekauze he haz.
Theze fellers don’t beleaf in spooks, and yet they are about the only folks who ever see enny. A jealous man iz alwus happy, jist in perposhun az he iz mizerable.
Jelosy iz a disseaze, and it iz a good deal like sea sickness—dreadful sick and kan’t vomit.