m as they rise.
Spring interdooced with a fiew approput flours. Speach finally begins
witch nobuddy need n't feel obolygated to read as I never read 'em an'
never shell this one ag'in. Subjick staited; expanded; delayted;
extended. Pump lively. Subjick staited ag'in so 's to avide all
mistaiks. Ginnle remarks; continooed; kerried on; pushed furder; kind o'
gin out. Subjick _re_staited; dielooted; stirred up permiscoous. Pump
ag'in. Gits back to where he sot out. Can't seem to stay thair. Ketches
into Mr. Seaward's hair. Breaks loose ag'in an' staits his subjick;
stretches it; turns it; folds it; onfolds it; folds it ag'in so 's 't no
one can't find it. Argoos with an imedginary bean thet ain't aloud to
say nothin' in repleye. Gives him a real good dressin' an' is settysfide
he 's rite. Gits into Johnson's hair. No use tryin' to git into his
head. Gives it up. Hez to stait his subjick ag'in; doos it back'ards,
sideways, eendways, criss-cross, bevellin', noways. Gits finally red on
it. Concloods. Concloods more. Reads sum xtrax. Sees his subjick
a-nosin' round arter him ag'in. Tries to avide it. Wun't du. _Mis_states
it. Can't conjectur' no other plawsable way of staytin' on it. Tries
pump. No fx. Yeels the flore.

You kin spall an' punctooate thet as you please. I allus do, it kind of
puts a noo soot of close onto a word, thisere funattick spellin' doos
an' takes 'em out of the prissen dress they wair in the Dixonary. Ef I
squeeze the cents out of 'em it's the main thing, an' wut they wuz made
for; wut 's left 's jest pummis.

Mistur Wilbur sez he to me onct, sez he, "Hosee," sez he, "in
litterytoor the only good thing is Natur. It 's amazin' hard to come
at," sez he, "but onct git it an' you 've gut everythin'. Wut's the
sweetest small on airth?" sez he. "Noomone hay," sez I, pooty bresk, for
he wuz allus hankerin' round in hayin'. "Nawthin' of the kine," sez he.
"My leetle Huldy's breath," sez I ag'in. "You 're a good lad," sez he,
his eyes sort of ripplin' like, for he lost a babe onct nigh about her
age,--"You 're a good lad; but 't ain't thet nuther," sez he. "Ef you
want to know," sez he, "open your winder of a mornin' et ary season, and
you 'll larn thet the best of perfooms is jest fresh air, _fresh air_,"
sez he, emphysizin', "athout no mixtur. Thet 's wut _I_ call natur in
writin', and it bathes my lungs and washes 'em sweet whenever I git a
whiff on 't," sez he. I offen think o' thet when I set down to write,