She trails the ritch silks ov wimmin along the filthy sidewalks, leads sore-eyed lap-dogs with a string, and banishes helpless children to murky nurserys, in the kare ov faithless hirelings. She cheats the excentric with the clap-trap of fredom, and makes him serve her in the habiliments ov the harlequin. Yea, verily. FUN. Fun is the soul’s vent. Fun iz whare the kruditys eskape, where she kiks up her heels, and runs snorting around the lot, unhaltered, and az eager az an eskaped konvikt. Fun iz a safety-valve that lets the steam preshure oph from the biler, and keeps things from bussting. Fun iz the dansing particles, which fli oph from the surface ov unbottled cider, it iz the senseless frolik ov the spring lam in the clover, it iz the merry twinkle that kreeps down tew the korner ov the parson’s eye, to stand in the sunlite, and see what’s going on. Fun iz az karliss az a kolt, az happy az a bridegroom, and az silly az a luv-sik skool-girl. Fun iz the holy day wisdum ov the sage, the phools pholly, and everyboddys puppet. Next tew the virtew in this world, the _fun_ in it iz what we kan least spare. Truly! O! truly! FRET. Fret iz a kanker, a gangreene, a blister, a bile, salt on a sore place, and a sliver everywhare. Fret iz frickshun, a dull lancet, a gimblet. Fret makes a yung man ackt like an old one, and an old man ackt like a yung one. Fret iz a grind stun, whare he holds hiz noze on, haz tew do hiz own turning. Fret haz burnt more holes thru a man’s koppers that all the other hot things, it haz killed az often az the doktors hav, and iz az lawless, and senseless, az a goose. Fret makes the husband a tyrant, the wife a plague, the child a nuisance, an old maid terrible, and a bachelor disgusting. Fret makes home a prizon, and puts teeth into the gums ov all life’s misfortunes. I bet! thou bet! he, she, or it, bets! FURY. Fury iz the tornado ov the inner man, a thunder shower, a blak kloud phull ov litening, a tiger out ov hiz kage, a maniak armed, a bull in fli time. Fury knows no law only its strength, like a rocket, it whizzes till it busts, and when it haz bust, like a rocket, it iz but a senseless and burnt reed. Fury iz the argument ov tyrants, and the revenge ov the embecile, the courage ov the kat, and the glowing embers ov dispair. Fury makes the hornet respektabel, and the pissmire a laffing stok, it makes the eagle allmoste human, and clothes the little wren, battling for her brood, with a halo sublime. Indeed! indeed! FITS. Fits are the moral tumblings ov man’s natur, the bak summersets ov hiz disposishun, the flying trapez ov the kritter himself. Fits prompt him tew klimb a greast pole, tew fite a wind mill at short range, to go too near a mule’s heels, and to make a kussid phool ov himself generally. Fits taketh a man bi the end ov hiz noze, and leadeth him into bak lots. Fits hav no conshience, and no judgment.