I draped it on the floor, and when I picked it up it was different, and red like this—(I had it up-side-down):
Life’s ills, could man by knowing,
Be spared from undergoing,
There would be sense in knowing;
But since with all our knowing,
This coal dust keeps on blowing,
Well—what’s the use in knowing?
Mr. Sweetland the business manager said I was a fool, but when he tried to reed it, he could not tell whuther it was a horse story or poem or something about Uncle Wash. He said it was one of the three, and said you wrote like a lobster. it is plain enough to me, but i wish you would write and tell me just what it is, and I will tell the printer for he is too fresh anyhow. Hear is whut I mad of it last:
When you give a sweet maid kisses
She hands you back a sigh—