An' du amazin' lots o' things thet isn't wut they ough' to; Bein' they haint no lead, they make their bullets out o' copper An' shoot the darned things at us, tu, wich Caleb sez ain't proper; He sez they'd ough' to stan' right up an' let us pop 'em fairly (Guess wen he ketches 'em at thet he'll hev to git up airly), Thet our nation's bigger'n theirn an' so its rights air bigger, An' thet it's all to make 'em free thet we air pullin' trigger, Thet Anglo-Saxondom's idee's abreakin' 'em to pieces, An' thet idee's thet every man doos jest wut he damn pleases; Ef I don't make his meanin' clear, perhaps in some respex I can, I know thet "every man" don't mean a nigger or a Mexican; An' there's another thing I know, an' thet is, ef these creeturs, Thet stick an Anglo-Saxon mask onto State prison feeturs, Should come to Jalam Center fer to argify an' spout on 't, The gals 'ould count the silver spoons the minnit they cleared out on 't. This goin' ware glory waits ye haint one agreeable feetur, And ef it worn't fer wakin' snakes, I'd home agin short meter; O, wouldn't I be off, quick time, ef't worn't thet I wuz sartin They'd let the daylight into me to pay me fer desartin! I don't approve o' tellin' tales, but jest to you I may state Our ossifers aint wut they wuz afore they left the Bay State; Then it wuz "Mister Sawin, sir, you're midd'lin well now, be ye? Step up an' take a nipper, sir; I'm dreffle glad to see ye;" But now it's, "Ware's my eppylet? Here, Sawin, step an' fetch it! An' mind your eye, be thund'rin spry, or damn ye, you shall ketch it!" Wal, ez the Doctor sez, some pork will bile so, but by mighty, Ef I hed some on 'em to hum, I'd give 'em linkumvity, I'd play the rogue's march on their hides an' other music follerin'---- But I must close my letter here for one on 'em 's a hollerin', These Anglosaxon ossifers--wal, taint no use a jawin', I'm safe enlisted fer the war, Yourn, BIRDOFREDOM SAWIN. [Footnote A: it wuz "tumblebug" as he Writ it, but the parson put the Latten instid. i said tother maid better meeter, but he said tha was eddykated peepl to Boston and tha wouldn't stan' it no how, idnow as tha _wood_ and idnow _as_ tha wood.--H. B.] * * * * * Two dusky small boys were quarreling; one was pouring forth a volume of vituperous epithets, while the other leaned against a fence and calmly contemplated him. When the flow of language was exhausted he said: "Are you troo?" "Yes." "You ain't got nuffin' more to say?" "Well, all dem tings what you called me, you is." CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER MY SUMMER IN A GARDEN SECOND WEEK