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
The old woman raly had made an etarnal coot of herself in the way of
fixing. She had on a lot of satin, and shiny thin stuff twistified round
her head kinder like a hornet's nest; in front on it, jest over the
leetle curls all rolled and frizzled round her face, a bird--a rale
ginuine bird, all feathered off as bright as a rainbow--was stuck with
its bill down and its tail flourished up in the air, as if it had jest
lit to search for a place to build a nest in. I never see one of the kind
afore, for its tail looked like a handful of corn-silk, it was so yaller
and bright; but, think sez I, it must be some sort of a new-fashioned
woodpecker, for it's the natur of them birds always to light on any thing
holler--and if he was once to get a going on that old woman's head, I've
an idee there'd be a drumming. She had a leetle short neck, all hung
round with chains, and capes, and lots of things--besides, a leetle
watch, all sot over with shiny stuns, was hung to her side, and her fat
chunked fingers was kivered over with rings, that looked like the spots
on a toad's back more than any thing else. She had a great wide ruffle
round the bottom of her frock, like the one cousin Mary had on at her
party; but she warn't no where nigh so tall as Mary, and it made her look
like a bantum hen feathered down to the claws. Wal, think sez I, if you
wouldn't make a comical figger-head fur Captin Doolittle's sloop. I
wonder what your husband would ask for you, jest as you stand--hump,
ruffles and all? I shouldn't a taken so much notice of her, if she hadn't
let off such a shower of talk on me about her darter; but when a woman
begins to pester me by praising up her family, I always make a pint of
thinking of something else as fast as I can. If you only bow a leetle,
and throw in a "yes marm, sartingly," and so on, once in a while, you're
all right. A woman will generally soft-sodder herself, if you let her
alone when she once gits a going, without putting you to the trouble of
doing it for her.
Arter she'd talked herself out of breath, she went along up to the
table, and spreading her hands, sez she, "Take some refreshments, Mr.
Slick?"
"Wal," sez I, "I haint much hungry, but I do feel a leetle dry--so I
don't care if I du."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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