Says I, “I spose I can rehearse it if it will do you any good,” so I began as follers:
“It is seldem that we present to the readers of the Augur (the best paper for the fireside in Jonesville or the world) with a poem like the following. It may be by the assistance of the Augur (only twelve shillings a year in advance, wood and potatoes taken in exchange) the name of Betsey Bobbet will yet be carved on the lofty pinnacle of fame’s towering pillow. We think however that she could study such writers as Sylvanus Cobb, and Tupper with profit both to herself and to them.
Editor of the Augur.”
Here Betsey interrupted me, “The deah editah of the Augah had no need to advise me to read Tuppah, for he is indeed my most favorite authar, you have devorhed him havn’t you Josiah Allen’s wife?”
“Devoured who?” says I, in a tone pretty near as cold as a cold icicle.
“Mahten, Fahyueah, Tuppah, that sweet authar,” says she.
“No mom,” says I shortly, “I hain’t devoured Martin Farquhar Tupper, nor no other man, I hain’t a cannibal.”
“Oh! you understand me not, I meant, devorhed his sweet, tender lines.”
“I hain’t devoured his tenderlines, nor nothin’ relatin’ to him,” and I made a motion to lay the paper down, but Betsey urged me to go on, and so I read.
GUSHINGS OF A TENDAH SOUL.