His Folks gin the letter to me and I shew it to parson Wilbur and he ses it oughter Bee printed, send It to mister Buckinum, ses he, i don't ollers agree with him, ses he, but by Time, ses he, I _du_ like a feller that ain't a Feared. I have intusspussed a Few refleckshuns hear and thair. We're kind o' prest with Hayin. Ewers respecfly, HOSEA BIGLOW. This kind o' sogerin' aint a mite like our October trainin', A chap could clear right out from there ef't only looked like rainin'. An' th' Cunnles, tu, could kiver up their shappoes with bandanners, An' sen the insines skootin' to the barroom with their banners (Fear o' gittin' on 'em spotted), an' a feller could cry quarter, Ef he fired away his ramrod artur tu much rum an' water. Recollect wut fun we hed, you'n I on' Ezry Hollis, Up there to Waltham plain last fall, ahavin' the Cornwallis? This sort o' thing aint _jest_ like thet--I wished thet I wuz furder-- Nimepunce a day fer killin' folks comes kind o' low for murder (Wy I've worked out to slarterin' some fer Deacon Cephas Billins, An' in the hardest times there wuz I ollers teched ten shillins), There's sutthin' gits into my throat thet makes it hard to swaller, It comes so nateral to think about a hempen collar; It's glory--but, in spite o' all my tryin' to git callous, I feel a kind o' in a cart, aridin' to the gallus. But wen it comes to _bein'_ killed--I tell ye I felt streaked The fust time ever I found out wy baggonets wuz peaked; Here's how it wuz: I started out to go to a fan-dango, The sentinul he ups an' sez "Thet's furder 'an you can go." "None o' your sarse," sez I; sez he, "Stan' back!" "Aint you a buster?" Sez I, "I'm up to all thet air, I guess I've ben to muster; I know wy sentinuls air sot; you aint agoin' to eat us; Caleb haint no monopoly to court the scenoreetas; My folks to hum hir full ez good ez hisn be, by golly!" An' so ez I wuz goin' by, not thinkin' wut would folly, The everlastin' cus he stuck his one-pronged pitchfork in me An' made a hole right thru my close ez ef I was an in'my. Wal, it beats all how big I felt hoorawin' in old Funnel Wen Mister Bolles he gin the sword to our Leftenant Cunnle (It's Mister Secondary Bolles, thet writ the prize peace essay; Thet's wy he didn't list himself along o' us, I dessay). An' Rantoul, tu, talked pooty loud, but don't put _his_ foot in it, Coz human life's so sacred thet he's principled agin' it---- Though I myself can't rightly see it's any wus achokin' on 'em Than puttin' bullets thru their lights, or with a bagnet pokin' on 'em; How dreffle slick he reeled it off (like Blitz at our lyceam Ahaulin' ribbins from his chops so quick you skeercely see 'em), About the Anglo-Saxon race (an' saxons would be handy To du the buryin' down here upon the Rio Grandy), About our patriotic pas an' our star-spangled banner,