His food is white nectar, drawn from the full fountain ov affecshun. He waxes fatter, and more slik, evra da, and hangs from the buzzum ov his muther like an image ov alabastur. He laffeth at forms, and curleth his tale still clusser, as his feast goeth on, then he riseth with gladness, and wandereth with his kindred, beside the still waters. His brothers and sisters are az like him as flakes ov snow, and all the day long, amung the red klover, and beneath the white thorn, he maketh his joy, and leadeth a life arkadian. His words are low musik, and his language the untutored freshness ov natur. His pastime is the history ov innersence, and his lessure is elaganse. He walketh whare grase leadeth, and gambles tew the dallianse ov dewy fragranse. He gathereth straws in his mouth, and hasteneth awa on errants ov gladness. He listeneth tu the reproof of hiz parent; his ackshuns are the laws ov perliteness, and his logick is the power ov instinkt. His datime is pease and his evening is gentle forgitfullness. As he taketh on years, he loveth kool plases, and delveth in liquids, and stirreth the arth tew a fatness, and painteth hisself in dark cullors, a reffuge from flize, and the torments ov life. He forgetteth his parent, and bekumeth his own master, and larneth the mistery ov food, and groweth hugely. Men gaze at his porkyness, and kount his vallu bi pounds, and la in wate for him, and sacrifise him, and give his flesh salt for its safety. This is Pig life. JOSH BILLINGS ADDRESSES THE “FEMAIL PORDUNK SOWING SOSIETY.” Feller sisters:--When I caste mi eye on a sirkle of luvely wimmin bizzy with their needles, mi harte seems tew stretch clean akross mi buzzum. And when i reflek for a minnit, that tha are tew work for nothing, and find themselfs, and that a yung heathin stans reddy yelping around the corner, for the very shirt tha are wurking on, it duz seem tu me, that i cud shout hozzanner for 3 weeks on a strech. Feller Sisters, yu kan kount on Josh Billings az a frend; he luves charitee, az a pup hankers for nu milk; his verry natur looks out onto the horizen ov the poor folks, jist as the lite ov a tin lantern shines akross a bog meddow. And he sees the little bare bak yung ones shivering for a krust ov bread, and hungry for a shirt; then he looks at the Sisters, a talking and sowing, and sowing and talking, and he kounts a hole parcil ov little shirts on the tabil, and then he thinks ov the widders cruise, and the bred hove onto the waters, menshioned in the good Book, and he feels jist az tho he wud like tew own awl the femail sowing sosieties in the wurld hisself, and put hiz hole fortin in the little reddy made cottin shirt bizziness. Oh Charitee! Oh Charitee! When Josh Billings communes with you, he feals az tho he had jist been tried out, and sot awa tew cool. Feller Sisters, don’t be skeered, let the ritch and the hawty stik up their nozes, and let the eddicated larf.