She came in here one day last week. It was about ten o’clock in the mornin’. I had got my house slick as a pin, and my dinner under way (I was goin’ to have a biled dinner, and a cherry puddin’ biled, with sweet sass to eat on it), and I sot down to finish sewin’ up the breadth of my new rag carpet. I thought I would get it done while I hadn’t so much to do, for it bein’ the 1st of March I knew sugarin’ would be comin’ on, and then cleanin’-house time, and I wanted it to put down jest as soon as the stove was carried out in the summer kitchin. The fire was sparklin’ away, and the painted floor a-shinin’ and the dinner a-bilin’, and I sot there sewin’ jest as calm as a clock, not dreamin’ of no trouble, when in came Betsey Bobbet. I met her with outward calm, and asked her set down and lay off her things. She sot down, but she said she couldn’t lay off her things. Says she, “I was comin’ down past, and I thought I would call and let you see the last numbah of the _Augah_. There is a piece in it concernin’ the tariff that stirs men’s souls. I like it evah so much.” She handed me the paper, folded so I couldn’t see nothin’ but a piece of poetry by Betsey Bobbet. I see what she wanted of me, and so I dropped my breadths of carpetin’ and took hold of it, and began to read it. “Read it audible, if you please,” says she. “Especially the precious remahks ovah it; it is such a feast for me to be a sittin’ and heah it reheahsed by a musical vorce.” Says I, “I spose I can rehearse it if it will do you any good,” so I began as follows:— “It is seldom that we present to the readers of the _Augur_ (the best paper for the fireside in Jonesville or the world) with a poem like the following. It may be, by the assistance of the _Augur_ (only twelve shillings a year in advance, wood and potatoes taken in exchange), the name of Betsey Bobbet will yet be carved on the lofty pinnacle of fame’s towering pillow. We think, however, that she could study such writers as Sylvanus Cobb, and Tupper, with profit both to herself and to them. “EDITOR OF THE AUGUR.” Here Betsey interrupted me. “The deah editah of the _Augah_ has no need to advise me to read Tuppah, for he is indeed my most favourite authar. You have devorhed him, haven’t you, Josiah Allen’s wife?” “Devoured who?” says I, in a tone pretty near as cold as a cold icicle. “Mahten, Fahqueah, Tuppah, that sweet authar,” says she. “No, mom,” says I shortly; “I hain’t devoured Martin Farquhar Tupper, nor no other man. I hain’t a cannibal.” “Oh! you understand me not; I meant, devorhed his sweet, tender lines.” “I hain’t devoured his tenderlines, nor nothin’ relatin’ to him,” and I made a motion to lay the paper down, but Betsey urged me to go on, and so I read— “GUSHINGS OF A TENDAH SOUL.