The Complete Works of Artemus Ward - Part 1: Essays, Sketches, and Letters

   I am preparin for the Summer Campane. I shall stay in Cleveland a
few days and probly you will hear from me again ear I leave to once
more becum a tosser on life's tempestuous billers, meanin the Show
Bizniss.—Very Respectively Yours,

   Artemus Ward.

   The moosic which Ime most use to is the inspirin stranes of the
hand orgin. I hire a artistic Italyun to grind fur me, payin him
his vittles & close, & I spose it was them stranes which fust put a
moosical taste into me. Like all furriners, he had seen better
dase, havin formerly been a Kount. But he aint of much akount now,
except to turn the orgin and drink Beer, of which bevrige he can
hold a churnful, EASY.

   Miss Patty is small for her size, but as the man sed abowt his
wife, O Lord! She is well bilt & her complexion is what might be
called a Broonetty. Her ize is a dark bay, the lashes bein long &
silky. When she smiles the awjince feels like axing her to doo it
sum moor, & to continner doin it 2 a indefnit extent. Her waste is
one of the most bootiful wastisis ever seen. When Mister
Strackhorse led her out I thawt sum pretty skool gal, who had jest
graduatid frum pantalets & wire hoops, was a cumin out to read her
fust composishun in public. She cum so bashful like, with her hed
bowd down, & made sich a effort to arrange her lips so thayd look
pretty, that I wanted to swaller her. She reminded me of Susan
Skinner, who'd never kiss the boys at parin bees till the candles
was blow'd out. Miss Patty sung suthin or ruther in a furrin tung.
I don't know what the sentimunts was. Fur awt I know she may hav
bin denouncin my wax figgers & sagashus wild beests of Pray, & I
don't much keer ef she did. When she opened her mowth a army of
martingales, bobolinks, kanarys, swallers, mockin birds, etsettery,
bust 4th& flew all over the Haul.

   Go it, little 1, sez I to myself, in a hily exsited frame of mind,
& ef that kount or royal duke which you'll be pretty apt to marry 1
of these dase don't do the fair thing by ye, yu kin always hav a
home on A. Ward's farm, near Baldinsville, Injianny. When she sung
Cumin threw the Rye, and spoke of that Swayne she deerly luvd

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