High Life in New York: A series of letters to Mr. Zephariah Slick, Justice of the Peace, and Deacon of the church over to Weathersfield in the state of ConnecticutStephens, Ann S. (Ann Sophia)
General
High Life in New York: A series of letters to Mr. Zephariah Slick, Justice of the Peace, and Deacon of the church over to Weathersfield in the state of Connecticut
Stephens, Ann S. (Ann Sophia)
New York (N.Y.) -- Social life and customs -- 19th century
ristband to 'em, and they hung wide open, so that her pesky white arm
shone out enough to dazzle a feller's eyes. She had two allfired great
breast pins, one on 'em spread out like a sun on her bosom, and another
down to her waist, all sot chuck full of stuns, that kept a glistening
in the light, like a handful of sparks out of a blacksmith's chimney.
She wore another of these glistening leetle suns on her harnsome white
forehead; her long shiney curls hung down on her shoulders, and a white
veil, that looked like a cloud with the sunshine a pouring into it,
dropped over them. I whispered to cousin Mary, and asked who the darned
likely critter could be. She said she come from Peru, and was a
priestess, or something, of the sun. Before I could get a chance to ask
whose son it was that she preached tu, and to say that I shouldn't
grumble if sich a critter as that should preach a trifle easy to Mr.
Zepheniah Slick's son--up come a leetle black-eyed gal, about knee high
to a toad, with a stick in her hand, and curls a hanging all over her
shoulders.
"Hellow," sez I, "none of that are," as she hit my woodchuck a dab with
the stick, and run off larfin, ready to bust her leetle sides. Before I
knew which eend my head was on, up comes another set of leetle queer
looking gals, so young that they didn't seem much more than babies,
that ought to have been spanked and put to bed, instead of being there.
They were dressed off in short frocks, and glistened like a hail storm;
but where they come from I couldn't tell, for they all had wings on
their shoulders, and I never read of such winged critters on this arth,
and it didn't seem as if children would be sent from t'other world to a
York ball. Before I could say Jack Robinson, they made themselves
scarce, and then sich sights of men and wimmen cum a walking about, some
dressed like angels jest dropped down, some in regimentals, and all
sorts of ways, that ever a feller dreamed of. I swan, if I didn't begin
to git dizzy with looking at 'em.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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