Says I, “I never see Mr. Fourier. How can I tell you any thing about the old man’s health, whether his system is all right, or whether he is enjoyin’ poor health. Horace, I come to talk with you on more important things.”
But he continued placidly, hopin’ to draw my mind off,
“What do you think of Darwin’s idees?”
“Darwin who?” says I. “Darwin Gowdey? I don’t know any other Darwin, and I never mistrusted that he had any idees, he is most a natural fool.”
Says he, “about our descendin’ from a monkey?”
Says I, with dignity, “I don’t know how it is with you, but I know that I couldn’t descend from a monkey, never bein’ on one’s back in my whole life.” Says I, “I never looked well in the saddle any way bein’ so hefty. But,” says I, in a liberal way, “if you, or anybody else wants to ride monkeys, you have the privilege, but I never had no leanin’ that way.” And agin, says I, in agitated tones, “you needn’t try to take my mind oft’en the deep and momentous subject on which it is sot, by talkin’ about ridin’ monkeys. Horace I have come clear down here to the village on purpose to ask you to examine your platform, and see if there hain’t no loose boards in it where some of the citizens of the United States, such as wimmen can fall through. Platforms, that are built over the deep waters, ought to be sound, and every board ought to be nailed down tight, so that nobody—not even the smallest and weakest—can fall through and get drownded.” Says I, “Your door step is most all good solid timber, but I feel there is one old, mouldy, worm eaten board that is loose in it.” And with emotion renderin’ my voice weak as a cat, says I, “Horace, I want you to examine your door step and lay down a new board, and I will help you do it. I come a purpose to.”
He see it was vain to turn the current of my thoughts round, and says he in a decided way,
“You must have become aware of my views from the contents of my letter. You got my letter?” says he in a enquirin’ tone.
“Yes,” says I, “we have framed it and got a glass over it, jest because it was your writin’, but there seemed to be a mistake in it; it seemed to be wrote to Josiah.”
Says he, “What did you make it out to be?”