You kin spall an’ punctooate thet as you please.  I allus do, it kind of puts a noo soot of close onto a word, thisere funattick spellin’ doos an’ takes ’em out of the prissen dress they wair in the Dixonary.  Ef I squeeze the cents out of ’em it’s the main thing, an’ wut they wuz made for:  wut’s left’s jest pummis.

Mistur Wilbur sez he to me onct, sez he, ‘Hosee,’ sez he, ’in litterytoor the only good thing is Natur.  It’s amazin’ hard to come at,’ sez he, ‘but onct git it an’ you’ve gut everythin’.  Wut’s the sweetest small on airth?’ sez he.  ‘Noomone hay,’ sez I, pooty bresk, for he wuz allus hankerin’ round in hayin’.  ‘Nawthin’ of the kine,’ sez he.  ’My leetle Huldy’s breath,’ sez I ag’in.  ‘You’re a good lad,’ sez he, his eyes sort of ripplin’ like, for he lost a babe onct nigh about her age,—­’you’re a good lad; but ‘tain’t thet nuther,’ sez he.  ’Ef you want to know,’ sez he, ‘open your winder of a mornin’ et ary season, and you’ll larn thet the best of perfooms is jest fresh air, fresh air,’ sez he, emphysizin’, ’athout no mixtur.  Thet’s wut I call natur in writin’, and it bathes my lungs and washes ’em sweet whenever I git a whiff on ‘t.’ sez he.  I often think o’ thet when I set down to write but the winders air so ept to git stuck, an’ breakin’ a pane costs sunthin’.

Yourn for the last time,

Nut to be continooed,

HOSEA BIGLOW.

I don’t much s’pose, hows’ever I should plen it,
I could git boosted into th’ House or Sennit,—­
Nut while the twolegged gab-machine’s so plenty,
‘nablin’ one man to du the talk o’ twenty;
I’m one o’ them thet finds it ruther hard
To mannyfactur’ wisdom by the yard,
An’ maysure off, accordin’ to demand,
The piece-goods el’kence that I keep on hand,
The same ole pattern runnin’ thru an’ thru,
An’ nothin’ but the customer thet’s new. 10
I sometimes think, the furder on I go,
Thet it gits harder to feel sure I know,
An’ when I’ve settled my idees, I find
‘twarn’t I sheered most in makin’ up my mind;
‘twuz this an’ thet an’ t’other thing thet done it,
Sunthin’ in th’ air, I couldn’ seek nor shun it. 
Mos’ folks go off so quick now in discussion,
All th’ ole flint-locks seems altered to percussion,
Whilst I in agin’ sometimes git a hint,
Thet I’m percussion changin’ back to flint; 20
Wal, ef it’s so, I ain’t agoin’ to werrit,
For th’ ole Queen’s-arm hez this pertickler merit,—­
It gives the mind a hahnsome wedth o’ margin
To kin’ o make its will afore dischargin’: 
I can’t make out but jest one ginnle rule,—­
No man need go an’ make himself a fool,
Nor jedgment ain’t like mutton, thet can’t bear
Cookin’ tu long, nor be took up tu rare.