“There is one thing I want to ask your advice about, Josiah Allen’s wife. This poem is for the Jonesville Augah. You know I used always to write for the opposition papah, the Jonesville Gimlet, but as I said the othah day, since the Editah of the Augah lost his wife I feel that duty is a drawing of me that way. Now do you think that it would be any more pleasing and comforting to that deah Editah to have me sign my name Bettie Bobbet--or Betsey, as I always have?” And loosin’ herself in thought she murmured dreamily to the twins, who was a pullin’ each other’s hair on the floor at her feet-- “Sweet little mothahless things, you couldn’t tell me, could you, deahs, how your deah Pa would feel about it?” Here the twins laid holt of each other so I had to part ’em, and as I did so I said to Betsey, “If you haint a fool you will hang on to the Betsey. You can’t find a woman nowadays that answers to her true name. I expect,” says I in a tone of cold and almost witherin’ sarcasm, “that these old ears will yet hear some young minister preach about Johnnie the Baptist, and Minnie Magdalen. Hang on to the Betsey; as for the Bobbet,” says I, lookin’ pityingly on her, “that will hang on for itself.” I was too well bread to interrupt her further, and I pared my potatoes, pounded my beefsteak, and ground my coffee for dinner, and listened. This commenced also as if she had been havin’ a account with Love, and had come out in his debt. OWED TO LOVE. Ah, when my deah future companion’s heart with grief is rife, With his bosom’s smart, with the cares of life, Ah, what higher, sweeter, bliss could be, Than to be a soothing poultice unto he? And if he have any companions lost--if they from earth have risen, Ah, I could weep tears of joy--for the deah bliss of wiping away his’en; Or if he (should happen to) have any twins, or othah blessed little ties, Ah, _how willingly_ on the altah of duty, B. Bobbet, herself would sacrifice. I would (all the rest of) life to the cold winds fling, And live for love--and live to cling. Fame, victuals, away! away! our food shall be, His smile on me--my sweet smile on he. There was pretty near twenty verses of ’em, and as she finished she said to me-- “What think you of my poem, Josiah Allen’s wife?” Says I, fixin’ my sharp grey eyes upon her keenly, “I have had more experience with men than you have, Betsey;” I see a dark shadow settlin’ on her eye-brow, and I hastened to apologise--“you haint to blame for it, Betsey--we all know you haint to blame.”