|Cousin Jim, tha aint nuthin' occurred wuth ritin' about in our settlement fur a long spell, but about the beginnin' of last week, thur war a rumor sot afloat in town, which kept the wimen for two or three days in a continooal snigger, and it war half a day afore the men could find out the rights of the marter--sech anuther fease as all the gals got inter, war delightful to contemplate. The boys kept a askin' one anuther, what in the yearth wur the marter, that the gals kept a whisperin' and laffin' round town so--at last it cum out! and what do you think, Jim, wur the marter?--You couldn't guess in a week. It aint no common occurrence, and yet it's mighty natral. Little Jo Allen, the shoemaker, had an addition to his family, amountin' to jest three babbys--one boy and two gals! His wife is a leetle creatur', but I reckon she's “some” in countin' the census, and sech anuther excitement as her little brood of pretty babbys has kicked up among the wimen, is perfectly inticin' to bachelors. When the interestin' marter war furst noised about, the wimen wouldn't believe it, but to know the rights of it tha put on thur bonnets and poured down to see little Mrs. Allen, in a parfect stream of curiosity; and, sure enough, thar tha wur, three raal peert lookin' children, all jest alike. Bein' an acquaintance of Jo's he tuck me in to see his family, and it wur raaly an interestin' sight to see the little creaturs. Thar tha wur, with thur tiny faces aside each other, hevin on the prettiest caps,--all made and fixed by the young wimen, as a present to the mother,--and then thur infantile lips jest openin', like so many rose buds poutin', while thur bits of hands, transparent as sparmacity, wur a curtin' about and pushin', all doubled up, agin thur little noses, and thur mother all the time lookin' at 'em so peert and pleased, jest as ef she war feelin' in her own mind tha war hard to beat--addid to which, thar stood thur daddy, contemplating with a glow of parentil feelin', the whole unanimous pic-tur! It aint in me, Jim, to fully describe the univarsel merits of sech a scene, and I guess it couldn't receive raal jestis from any man's pen, 'cept he'd ben the father of twins at least. “Gracious me,” sed Mrs. Sutton, a very literary worain, who allays talks history on extra occasions, “ef that little Mrs. Allen aint ekill to the mother of the Grashi!” She looked at little Jo, the daddy, fur a spell, and tuk to admirin' him so that she could scacely keep her hands off on him--she hadn't no babbys, poor womin! “Ah, Mister Allen,” ses she, “you are suthin' like a husbind--you're detarmin'd to descend a name down to your ancesters!”