On the last eleckshun day, I was servin as Inspecter of Eleckshun, when a passil of wimmen, drest partly in men’s habiliments, walkt up to the ballit box.

They was headed by old SARY YOOMANS, who has been an old made for more’n 1/2 Sentury.

Steppin up close to the railin where votes is put in, Miss YOOMANS thus to me did say:—­

“Square GREEN, wee’ve come to cast the soffrige of a down-trodden race:  Will you receive our votes?”

“Not exzactly I wont, my hi toned Greshun benders,” was my reply.

“Do you know who we air, sir?” cride a long, leen, lank, rale-fence-lookin femail, whose nose looked as if sheed been sokin it in a bladder of black snuff.

“Well! sweet wolfs in lambs clothin,” said I, puttin on one of my shrewed expreshuns, “you look as if you was a lot of, so-called, strong-minded femails, who was up to snuff, but, in an endevor to scratch somebody bare-boned, you’d lost your footin, and tumbled slap-bang into a coal-hole.”

“We air, sir,” says another ethereal-lookin hearthstun depopulater, “members of the Skeensboro Sore-eye-siss Society.  We believe wimmens has got rites, which man won’t let her have.  We believe the ballit is calkilated to raise woman to her proper speer.  We believe hoop-skirts and side-saddles will soon be numbered among the lost arts.  We believe SOOZAN B. ANTHONY, E. CADY STANTON, WENDIL FILLIPS, or Mister BLACKWELL, are just as capable of bein President of this ere old Union, as the best man which ever wore panterloons; and we air bound hensforth and forever, one and onseperable, to stand up for our rites, if we can only rope in enuff Congressmen to hold our bonnits.”

Durin the a-4-said bust of elokence, about 75 wimmen was holdin ballits for me to take, while others were vilently swingin their gingham parasols over my bald head.

All seemed as if they was jest bilin over to get their clutches about my breethin apparatus.  Says I: 

“Go hum and be femails, and don’t make sich tarnal loonatix of yourself any longer, gittin mixed up with the body polertick; for sures you’re born, when woman votes sheel trail her skirts in the dust and you cant stop her; when she walks up to the ballit box, and undertakes to mix into suthin she don’t know no more about, than TILTON and FULTON do about the golden rool, then when that air time comes I will exclaim: 

    “‘Oh! woman; where is thy stinger.’ 
    “’Oh!  Sore-eye-siss! where ‘bouts is thy victory?’”

“What! miserable man, woodest-ist thou deny us the ballit?” screemed another femail, as she tore a 2-bushel waterfall from her head, and, wildly swingin it in the air, dirty stockins and old clothes fell into promiscous heeps all about her.

“With all doo respect to the sects,” says I, gettin madder and madder all the while, “you can jest bet your Sunday close I woodest.”

“Hard-harted old man, yool rue this day,” they all cride in Koruss, and the hull lot commenced snivellin, as if their harts was busted.