“Didn’t I say,” said he, “the laws that govern them?”
“Well, where are them laws writ?”
“In that are receipt-book o’ yourn you’re so proud of,” said he. “What do you call it, Mr Wiseacre?”
“Then, you admit,” sais I, “any fool can’t answer that question?”
“Perhaps you can,” sais he.
“Oh Dad!” sais I, “you picked up that shot and throwed it back. When a feller does that it shows he is short of ammunition. But I’ll tell you what my opinion is. There is no such a thing as natur.”
“What!” said he.
“Why there is no such a thing as natur in reality; it is only a figure of speech. The confounded poets got hold of the idea and parsonified it as they have the word heart, and talk about the voice of natur and its sensations, and its laws and its simplicities, and all that sort of thing. The noise water makes in tumblin’ over stones in a brook, a splutterin’ like a toothless old woman scoldin’ with a mouthful of hot tea in her lantern cheek, is called the voice of natur speaking in the stream. And when the wind blows and scatters about all the blossoms from your fruit trees, and you are a ponderin’ over the mischief, a gall comes along-side of you with a book of poetry in her hand and sais:
“‘Hark! do you hear the voice of natur amid the trees? Isn’t it sweet?’
“Well, it’s so absurd you can’t help laughin’ and saying, ‘No;’ but then I hear the voice of natur closer still, and it says, ‘Ain’t she a sweet critter?’