His looks wuz so onbecomin’ to a deacon and a pathmaster.
Sez I, “I won’t have you a-goin’ round lookin’ worse than any old scarecrow, Josiah Allen.”
He took up a position in front of me, where his rags showed off to the most plainest advantage, and sez he—
“As you see me now, Samantha, you will see me henceforth. I shall never, never be dressed up agin as long as I retain my conscientiousness.”
He spoke so firm, I felt some browbeat and skairt.
Sez I faintly, “Do you expect to go through your life a-lookin’ as you do now?”
“Always, always, Samantha; only worse, if I can manage it.” Sez he bitterly, “I am a man that has been dressed up too long; the iron has entered too deep into my soul—the worm has turned,” sez he. “I calculate to go in rags the rest of my life. And I wish,” sez he in a pleadin’ axent, “I wish that you would promise that you would bury me in this suit—that you would take a vow that I shall not be dressed up.”
I wuz at my wits’ end; he looked as determined as any old hen turkey ever did on her nest.
But by a happy inspiration I sez—
“Wouldn’t you ruther lay in your dressin’-gown, Josiah? Think of them beautiful tossels,” sez I.