remahks ovah it; it is such a feast for me to be a-sittin' and heah
it rehearsed by a musical vorce."

   Says I, "I s'pose I can rehearse it if it will do you any good," so I
began as follows:

   "It is seldom that we present the readers of the

    Augur

   (the best
paper for the fireside in Jonesville or the world) with a poem like
the following. It may be, by the assistance of the

    Augur

   (only
twelve shillings a year in advance, wood and potatoes taken in
exchange), the name of Betsey Bobbet will yet be carved on the lofty
pinnacle of fame's towering pillow. We think, however, that she could
study such writers as Sylvanus Cobb and Tupper with profit both to
herself and to them.

   "Editor of the Augur."

   Here Betsey interrupted me. "The deah editah of the

    Augah

   has no
need to advise me to read Tuppah, for he is indeed my most favorite
authar. You have devorhed him, haven't you, Josiah's Allen wife?"

   "Devoured who?" says I, in a tone pretty near as cold as a cold
icicle.

   "Mahten, Fahqueah, Tuppah, that sweet authar," says she.

   "No, mom," says I shortly; "I hain't devoured Martin Farquhar Tupper,
nor no other man. I hain't a cannibal."

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