After the marryin’ was over we all tuck supper, and the way old Miss Stallinses table was kivered over with good things was uncommon. After playin’ and frolickin’ till ’bout ten o’clock, the bride’s cake was cut, and sich a cake was never baked in Georgia afore. The Stallinses bein’ Washingtonians, ther wasn’t no wine, but the cake wasn’t bad to take jest dry so. ’Bout twelve o’clock the cumpany begun to cut home, all of ’em jest as sober as when they cum. I had to shake hands agin with ’em all, and tell ’em all good nite. “Good nite, Cousin Mary,” ses Pete, “good nite, Majer,” ses he, “I ’spose you ain’t gwine back to town to-nite,” and then bust rite out in a big laugh, and away he went. That’s jest the way with Peter, he’s a good feller enough, but he haint got no better sense. Mary ses she’s sorry she couldn’t send you no more cake, but Mr. Mountgomery’s saddle-bags wouldn’t hold half she rapped up for you. Don’t forgit to put our marriage in the Miscellany. No more from Your frend, ’til deth, Jos. Jones. LETTER VIII. Pineville, March 28th, 1843. Dear Sir, I really owe you a apology for not writin’ to you so long; but the fact is, I’ve been too happy ever sense I was married, to think about writin’ or ennything else much. Besides I use to have time to write nites; but now my time is tuck up with so many things, receivin’ cumpany and payin’ visits, and goin’ to quiltens and partys of one kind another, that I haint no time for nothing; and as for writin’ letters, when my wife’s all the time lookin’ over my shoulder, pullin’ my ears, and tickelen me, and disputin’ bout my spellin’, it aint no kind of use to try. She’s gone over to mother’s this afternoon with her sisters, and her mother’s out in the gardin, lookin’ if the frost is killed the peas, so I thought I’d rite you a few lines jest to let you know how we was all cumin’ on. We’s all pretty well, ’cept the old woman, who’s been in a monstrous flustration ’bout the comet, and the yeathquakes, and the harrycanes, and snowstorms, and sich things, for more’n a month, and I’ve had a most bominable sore throat, which I got lookin’ at the comet jest to please her; but Mary soon cured that with some sage tea and turpentime. I’m livin’ with Mary’s mother for the present; but that makes mother monstrous jealous, and to satisfy both the old wimin, Mary and me is gwine to housekeepin’ next fall to ourselves.