A YANKEE visiting Boston, introduced himself, as follows:
"My name is Ichabod Eli Erastus Pickrel; I used to keep a grocery store
deown Cape Cod. Patience Doolittle, she kept a notion store, right over
opposite. One day, Patience come into my store arter a pitcher of
lasses, for home consumption, (ye see, I'd had a kind of a sneaking
notion arter Patience, for some time,) so, ses I, 'Patience, heow would
you like to be made Mrs. Pickrel?' Upon that, she kerflounced herself
rite deown on a bag of salt, in a sort of kniption fitt. I seased the
pitcher, forgetting what was in it, and soused the molasses all over
her, and there she sat, looking like Mount Vesuvius, with the lava
running deown its sides; ye see, she was kivered with love, transport,
and molasses. She was a master large gal, of her bigness, she weighed
three hundred averdupoise, and _a breakfast over_. She could throw
eanermost any feller in our neighborhood, at _Indian hugs_. Arter
awhile, she kum tu, and I imprinted a kiss right on her bussers, that
is, as near as I could for the molasses, and twan't more than a spell
and a half, before _we caught a couple of little Pickrels_. The whooping
cough collered one of them, and _snaked him rite eout of town_. The
other one had a fight with the measles, and got licked. Mrs. Pickrel
took to having the typhus fever for a living, and twan't more than a
half a spell, before she busted up, and left me a disconsolate
wider-er-er. If you know of any putty gals that is in the market, just
tell them that I'm thar myself."