Dere Maddam.—I now take my pen in hand of the presence oppertunity to let you know how we are all well, but I am purry in sperits hopin’ this few lines may find you the same by gods mercy as I have been so mortfiyde I could cry my eyes out bodily. Bill Warrick, yes Bill Warrick, is married to Barbry Bass! I seed it done—a mean triflin; deceevinist creetur—but never mind—Didn’t I know him when we went to old field skool—a little raggid orflin Boy, with nobody to patch his close torn behin a makin of a dicky-dicky-dout of himself—cause his old nigger oman Venus was too lazy to mend ’em? Didn’t I know him when he couldn’t make a pot-hook or a hanger in his copy book to save his life, as for makin of a S he always put it tother way, jist so S backwards. And then to say I were too old for him, and that he always conceited I was a sort of a sister to him! O Polly Stroud, he is _so_ likely, perticlar when he is dressed up of a Sunday or a frolick—and what is worser his wife is prutty too, tho I don’t acknowlige it here. Only too think how I doated on him, how I used to save bosim blossoms for him, which some people call sweet sentid shrubs—and how I used to put my hand in an pull them out for him, and how I used to blush when he sed they was sweeter for comin’ from where they did? Who went blackberryin’ and huckleberryin’ with me? who always rode to preechun with me and helped me on the hoss? who made Pokebery stains in dimons and squares and circles and harts and so on at quiltins for me?—and talkin’ of Poke—I do hope to fathers above that Poke will beat Clay jist to spite Bill, for he is a rank distracted Whig and secreterry to the Clay Club—who always threaded my nedle and has kissed me in perticler, in playin’ of kneelin’ to the wittyist, bowin’ to the puttyist, and kissin’ of them you love best, and play in Sister Feebe, and Oats, Peas-Beans and Barley grows—at least one hundred times? Who wated as candil holder with me at Tim Bolins weddin’, and sed he knowd one in the room hed heap rather marry, and looked at me so oncommon, and his eyes so blue that I felt my face burn for a quarter of a hour? who I _do_ say was it but Bill Warrick?—yes, and a heap more! If I haven’t a grate mind to sue him, and would do it, if it wasn’t I am feared hed show a Voluntine I writ to him Feberary a year ago. He orter be exposed, for if ever he is a widderer hell fool somebody else the same way he did me. It’s a burnin’ shame, I could hardly hold my head up at the weddin’. If I hadn’t of bin so mad and too proud to let him see it I could cried severe. Well, it was a nice weddin’; sich ice-cakes and minicles, and raisins, and oringis and hams, flour doins and chickin fixins, and four oncommon fattest big goblers rosted I ever seed.