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
With that I shirked up a leetle, and sez I to myself, sez I--Who cares
if the Editors of the _Express_ be mad, cause I cut stick when they
wanted to send me off to Washington, when it was as hot as all natur,
and jest planting time. If my letters were good for any thing, they'll
be glad on 'em agin, and if they aint, why I'll let 'em see that I'm a
true born ginuine American, died in the wool, and that I can up stakes
and go hum agin in the old sloop as independent as a cork screw.
Arter I'd hung about the corner of the office a leetle while, I got up
pluck, and walked right straight ahead into the office. I begun to feel
to hum the minit I opened the door--every thing looked so nat'ral. There
was the counter, jest like old times, and the pigeon holes stuck full of
newspapers, and a pile of white printer's paper a lying up in one
corner, and there sot the clark, a rale ginuine cute leetle Yankee; he
was a writing on leetle scraps of brown paper, and a looking as if all
creation would stop if he didn't go ahead.
I jest give a peak in for a minit and streaked it up stairs, to see if I
couldn't find somebody there. I wish you could have seen how the work
hands stared and looked at one another when I went in, but I didn't stop
to say nothing to nobody, but up I went, through a room chuck full and
brimming over with work hands, and there in a leetle room, about as big
as an undersized calf pen, sot the critter hisself, eenamost buried up
in a pile of newspapers. It raly did my heart good to look at him, he'd
grown so chirk and hearty, it seemed to me as if he must a fatted up two
inches on the ribs since I'd seen him.
"Gracious me," sez I to myself, "I kinder wish I'd stuck to and tried to
tucker it out last year, and mebby I should a had something to fat up
about. Now I wonder what he's a reading that tickles him so."
Jest as I was a thinking this, the Editor of the _Express_ he looked up,
and see me a standing there, as if I'd been a growing on that identical
spot ever since last summer. Gauly offilus! but didn't the newspapers
fly, when he was sartin who it was. I see that he was eenamost tickled
to death to see me agin.
"I hain't lost my chance here yet," sez I to myself, and so I walked
right straight up to him, and held out my fist, mitten and all, and sez
I--
"How do you do?"--jest so.
"Why Mr. Slick," sez he, "where did you come from?"
"Right straight from hum," sez I; "but how du you git along about these
times--every thing going along about straight, I s'pose."
By this time he seemed to think that there was something that he ought
to git mad about. You'd a thought he'd swollered a basket of cowcumbers
all of a sudden, he looked so frosty.
"Now for it," sez I to myself.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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