The min’ster’s only settlement ’s the carpet-bag he packs his
Razor an’ soap-brush intu, with his hymbook an’ his Bible,—
But they du preach, I swan to man, it’s puf’kly indescrib’le!
They go it like an Ericsson’s ten-hoss-power coleric ingine,
An’ make Ole Split-Foot winch an’ squirm, for all he’s used to singein’;
Hawkins’s whetstone ain’t a pinch o’ primin’ to the innards
To hearin’ on ’em put free grace t’ a lot o’ tough old sin-hards!
But I must eend this letter now: ’fore long I’ll send a fresh un;
I’ve lots o’ things to write about, perticklerly Seceshun:
I’m called off now to mission-work, to let a leetle law in