MISTER BUCKINUM, the follerin Billet was writ hum by a Yung feller of our town that wuz cussed fool enuff to goe atrottin inter Miss Chiff arter a Drum and fife, it ain't Nater for a feller to let on that he's sick o' any bizness that He went intu off his own free will and a Cord, but I rather cal'late he's middlin tired o' voluntearin By this Time. I bleeve u may put dependunts on his statemence. For I never heered nothin bad on him let Alone his havin what Parson Wilbur cals a _pong shong_ for cocktales, and he ses it wuz a soshiashun of idees sot him agoin arter the Crootin Sargient cos he wore a cocktale onto his hat. 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,[11] ses he, I _du_ like a feller that aint a Feared. I have intusspussed a Few refleckshuns hear and thar. We're a 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' send the insines skootin' to the bar-room with their banners (Fear o' gittin' on 'em spotted), an' a feller could cry quarter Ef he fired away his ramrod arter tu much rum an' water. Recollect wut fun we hed, you 'n' I an' Ezry Hollis, Up there to Waltham plain last fall, along o' the Cornwallis?[12] This sort o' thing aint _jest_ like thet,--I wish thet I wuz furder,[13]-- Ninepunce a day fer killin' folks comes kind o' low fer murder, 10 (Wy I've worked out to slarterin' some fer Deacon Cephas Billins, An' in the hardest times there wuz I ollers tetched ten shillins.) There's sutthin' gits into my throat thet makes it hard to swaller, It comes so naturel 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 't ever I found out wy baggonets wuz peaked; Here's how it wuz: I started out to go to a fandango, The sentinul he ups an' sez, 'Thet's furder 'an you can go.' 20 '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 seenorcetas; My folks to hum air full ez good ez his'n 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 wuz an in'my.