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bed, and we hain't never passed a word on the subject sence. I believe when you disagree with your pardner, in freein' your mind in the first on't, and then not to be a-twittin' about it afterwards. And as for bein' jealous, I should jest as soon think of bein' jealous of a meetin'-house as I should of Josiah. He is a well principled man. And I guess he wasn't fur out o' the way about Betsey Bobbet, though I wouldn't encourage him by lettin' him say a word on the subject, for I always make it a rule to stand up for my own sect; but when I hear her go on about the editer of the Augur, I can believe anything about Betsey Bobbet.
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 ist 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.
"Oh let who will,
Thus said I 'ere
But oh a change
A voice, a noble form,
His first pardner lies
Two twins, the little
Oh sweet lot, worthy
“What think you of it ? says she, as I finished readin’.
I looked right at her most a minute with a majestic look. In spite of her false curls, and her new white ivory teeth, she is a humbly critter. I looked at her silently while she sot and twisted her long yellow bunnet-strings, and then I spoke out. “Hain't the editer of the Augur a widower with a pair of twins ?”
“Yes,” says she with a happy look.
Then says I, “If the man hain't a fool, he'll think you are one."
“Oh!” says she, and she dropped her bunnet-strings, and clasped her long bony hands together in her brown cotton gloves, “Oh, we ahdent soles of genious have feelin's, you cold, practical natures know nuthing of, and if they did not gush out in poetry we should expiah. You may as well try to tie up the gushing catarack of Niagarah with a piece of welting cord, as to tie up the feelin's of an ahdent sole.” “ Ardent sole!
says I coldly. " Which makes the most noise, Betsey Bobbet, a three-inch brook, or a ten-footer? which is the tearer? which is the roarer? deep waters run stillest. I have no faith in feelin's that stalk round in public in mournin' weeds. . I have no faith in such mourners," says I.
“Oh, Josiah’s wife, cold, practical female being, you know me not; we are sundered as fah apart as if you was sitting on the North Pole, and I was sitting on the South Pole. Uncongenial being, you know me not.”
“I may not know you, Betsey Bobbet, but I do know decency, and I know that no munny would tempt me to write such stuff as that poetry and send it to a widower with twins.”
“Oh!” says she, "what appeals to the tendah feelin' heart of a single female woman more than to see a lonely man who has lost his relict? And pity never seems so much like pity as when it is given to the deah little children of widowehs. And,” says she, “I think moah than as likely as not, this soaring sole of genious did not wed his affinity, but was united to a mere woman of clay.”
“Mere woman of clay!" says I, fixin' my spektacles upon, her in a most searchin' manner. “Where will you find a woman, Betsey Bobbet, that hain't more or less clay? And affinity, that is the meanest word I ever heard; no married woman has any right to hear it. I'll excuse you, bein' a female ; but if a man had said it to me, I'd holler to Josiah. There is a time for everything, and the time to hunt