I well remember the time I said it, for it skairt Josiah almost to death. It was night and we was both settin’ by the fire relapsted into silence and he—not knowin’ the conversation goin’ on inside of my mind, thought I was crazy, and jumped up as if he was shot, and says he, in tremblin’ tones,
“What is the matter Samantha?”
Says I, “Josiah I am goin’ to write a book.”
This skairt him worse than ever—I could see, by his ghastly countenance—and he started off on the run for the camfire bottle.
Says I, in firm but gentle axcents, “camfire can’t stop me Josiah, the book will be wrote.”
He see by my pale but calm countenance, that I was not delirious any, and (by experience) he knows that when my mind is made up, I have got a firm and almost cast iron resolution. He said no more, but he sot down and sithed hevily; finally he spoke out in a despairin’ tone, he is pretty close (but honest),
“Who will read the book Samantha? Remember if you write it you have got to stand the brunt of it yourself—I haint no money to hire folks with to read it.” And again he sithed two or three times. And he hadn’t much more than got through sithein’ when he asked me again in a tone of almost agony—
“Who will read the book Samantha after you write it?”
The same question was fillin’ me with agonizin’ apprehension, but I concealed it and answered with almost marble calm,
“I don’t know Josiah, but I am determined to put my shoulder blades to the wheel and write it.”