Ever sense I writ my last letter to you, things is gone on jest as strate as a shingle, and the only thing what troubles me is, I’m afraid it’s all too good to last. It’s always ben the way with me ever sense I can remember, whenever I’m the happyest sum blamed thing seems to turn up jest to upset all my calculations, and now, though the day is sot for the weddin’, and the Stallinses is gittin’ everything reddy as fast as they can, I wouldn’t be s’prised much if some ’bominable thing was to happen, some yeath-quake or something, jest to bust it all up agin, though I should hate it monstrous. Old Miss Stallins red that piece in the Miscellany ’bout the mistake in Parson Miller’s figers, and I do b’lieve she’s as glad about it as if she was shore she would live a whole thousand years more herself. She ses she hain’t got no objections to the weddin’ now, for me and Mary’ll have plenty of time to make a fortin for our children and rais ’em up as they ought to be. She ses she always wondered how Mr. Miller could cipher the thing out so strait, to the very day, without a single mistake, but now he’s made sich a terrible blunder of a whole thousand years, she ses she knows he ain’t no smarter nor other people, if he was raised at the north. It’s really surprisin’, how ’mazin’ pop’lar it does make a body to be engaged to be married to a butiful young lady. Sense the thing’s leaked out, everybody’s my pertickeler frend, and I can’t meet nobody wherever I go, but what wants to congratilate me on my good fortin, ’cept Cousin Pete and two or three other fellers, who look sort o’ like they wanted to laugh and couldn’t. Almost every night Mary and me is invited to a party. T’other night we went to one to old Squire Rogerses, whar I got my dander up a little the worst I’ve had it for some time. I don’t b’lieve you have ever hearn of jest sich a fool trick as they played on me. Ther was a good many thar, and as the Squire don’t ’low dancing they all played games and tricks, and sich foolishness to pass away the time, which to my notion’s a ’bominable site worse than dancin’. Cousin Pete was thar splurgin’ about in the biggest, and with his dandy-cut trowsers and big whiskers, and tried to take the shine off everybody else, jest as he always does. Well, bimeby he ses: “S’pose we play Brother Bob—let’s play Brother Bob.” “Yes, let’s play that,” ses all of ’em; “won’t you be Brother Bob, Majer?” “Who’s Brother Bob?” ses I; for I didn’t know nothing ’bout it, and that’s the way I cum to be so ’bominably tuck in. “I’ll tell you,” ses he; “you and somebody else must set down in the chairs and be blindfolded, and the rest must all walk round and round you, and keep tappin’ you on the head with sumthing ’til you gess who bob’d you.” “But how bob me?” ses I.