"William Henry," said the parent, and his voice was sad and stern, "I
detest the slang you're using; will you never, never learn that correct
use of our language is a thing to be desired? All your common bughouse
phrases make the shrinking highbrow tired. There is nothing more
delightful than a pure and careful speech, and the man who weighs his
phrases always stacks up as a peach, while the guy who shoots his
larynx in a careless slipshod way looms up as a selling plater, people
brand him for a jay. In my youth my father soaked me if I entered his
shebang handing out a line of language that he recognized as slang. He
would take me to the cellar, down among the mice and rats, and with
nice long sticks of stovewood he'd play solos on my slats. Thus I
gained a deep devotion for our language undented, and it drives me
nearly batty when I hear my only child springing wads of hard boiled
language such as dips and yegg-men use, and I want a reformation or
I'll stroke you with my shoes. Using slang is just a habit, just a
cheap and dopey trick; if you hump yourself and try to, you can shake
it pretty quick. Watch my curves and imitate them, weigh your words
before they're sprung, and in age you'll bless the habit that you
formed when you were young."