Arter supper, when Jobe had his chores all done up, he says, as he come in from the barn:
“Betsy, has the mail come?”
A question that he has asked about that hour, on that same day of the week, fifty-two times a year for these many years. The mail alluded to meanin the Tuscarawas Advercate. I told Jobe, as usual, that it was in on the table. He took his specks down off the kitchen mantel, and, wipin them as he went on the corner of his coat tail, approached the table.
He sot down, rared back in his split-bottom rockin cheer, put his feet on another, then picked up the Ohio Dimicrat (with its name changed), and begin to read, as he expected, Editure McIlvaine’s slaughter of Dimocracy.
It started out with:
“There never was a more corrupt gang in control of any State government than the Republican boodlers at Columbus.”
Then:
“Every Republican officeholder in this county seems to exist for no other purpose than to suck the life-blood out of our hard-working tax-payers. We must turn the rascals out.”
“‘It is all over, Betsy,’ says he.”