Dick Swiveller, our big striped pussy-cat (Thomas J. named him), lay
stretched out in luxurious ease on his cushion, a-watchin' with
dignified indulgence the gambollin' of our little pup dog. He is young
yet, and Dick looked lenient on the innocent caperin's of youth.

Dick is very wise.

The firelight sparkled on the clean hearth, the lamplight gleamed down
onto my needles as I sot peaceful a-seamin' two and two, and the same
radiance rested lovin'ly on the shinin' bald head of my pardner as he
sot a-readin' his favorite production, the _World_.

All wuz relapsted into silence, all wuz peace, till all to once my
pardner dropped his paper, and sez he--

"Samantha, why not write a book on't?"

It started me, comin' so onexpected onto me, and specially sence he wuz
always so sot aginst my swingin' out in Literatoor.

I dropped two or three stitches in my inward agitation, but
instinctively I catched holt of my dignity, and kep calm on the outside.

And sez I, "Write a book on what, Josiah Allen?"

"Oh, about the World's Fair!" sez he.

"Wall," sez I, with a deep sithe, "I had thought on't, but I'd kinder
dreaded the job."