One sich horn az mi old unkle used tew absorb between hiz sermons on Sunday (5 inches, good and strong) would disfranchise a whole drove ov preachers now. In them daze, the preacher waz a stalwart man, and could mo his swarth in the hay field, with the best ov them, and could ride a hard trotting cob or a hoss, 6 miles an hour, all day, akrost the mountains, and set doun at night, to biled pork and kabbage, and kold injun puddin, and after thanking the Lord for his menny mersys, eat hiz way klean to the middle ov the table. But times, and men, hav altered, and so haz rum and tanzy. I dont want them good old times tew cum back agin, we aint pure enuff now tew stand them, neither are we tuff enuff. Our virtews may be az pure in the eyes ov heaven, but they kant stand the biled pork, and rum, ov one hundred years ago. We are told that mankind are growing weaker and wizer; weaker i admit, but wisdum that is gained at the expense ov simplicity may be a doubtful gain. I never hav met an old man yet, who didn’t mourn the degeneracy ov the times. Wisdum don’t konsist in knowing more that iz new, but in knowing less that iz false. But, dear Mr. ----, i will now git back tew whare i am, and tell yu sumthin about New Ashford. If yu luv a mountain, cum up here and see me. Right in front ov the little tavern, whare i am staying, rizes up a chunk ov land, that will make yu feel weak tew look at it. I hav bin on its top, and far above waz the brite blu ski, without a kloud swimming in it, while belo me the rain shot slanting on the valley, and the litening played its mad pranks. How is this for hi? But what a still place this New Ashford iz. At sunrize the roosters crow all around, once apiece; at sunset the cows cum hollering home tew be milked; and at twilite out steal the krickets, with a song, the burden ov which seems sad and weary. This iz all the racket thare iz in New Ashford. It iz so still here that you can hear a feather drop from a blujay’s tail. Out ov this mountain, squeezed bi the weight ov it, leaks a little brook ov water, and up and down this brook each day i loiter. In mi hand i hav a short pole, on the end ov the pole a short line, on the line a sharp hook, looped on the hook a grub, or a worm. Every now and and then thare cums dancing out ov this little brook a live trout no longer than yure finger, but az sweet az a stick ov kandy, and in he goes at the top ov mi baskit. This iz what i am here for; trout for breakfast, trout for dinner and trout for supper. I am az happy and az lazy az a yerling heifer. I hav not a kare on mi mind, not an ake in mi boddy. I haven’t read a nuzepaper for a week, and wouldn’t read one for a dollar. [Illustration] I shall stay here till mi munny givs out, and shall cum bak tew the senseless crash ov the city, with a tear in mi eye, and holes in both ov mi boots. This world iz phull ov fun, but most pholks look too hi for it.