Altho' I'me not much on the fat order myself, I received an invitation
to attend the grate Clam-bake. Mrs. GREEN put me up a lunch to eat on
the cars, and robin' myself in a cleen biled shirt, I sholdered my
umbreller and left Skeensboro.

The seen at Union Park was sublime with plenty of Ham fat. If all flesh
is grass, thought I, when old _tempus fugit_ comes along with his mowin'
masheen to cut this crop of fat men, I reckon he will have to hire some
of his nabor's barns, to help hold all of his hay.

Great mountins of hooman flesh were bobbin' about like kernals of corn
on a red hot stove, remindin' me of a corn field full of punkins set up
on clothes pins.

The little heads on top of the great sweating bodies, looked as if they
were sleev buttons drove in the top of the Punkins.

When a fat man laffs, his little head sinks down into his shirt collar,
and disappears in the fat, like a turtle's head when you tickle his nose
with a sharp stick.

And then to see them eat clams. I've seen men punish clams by the
bushel--by the barrel--but never did I see men shovel clams in by the
cart load before.

"Gee-whitaker," said I, to a Reporter of a N.Y. Journal, "them critters
must have a dredful elastic stomack."

"Yes," said he, "when Fat-men get clam hungry, the sea banks has to give
up her clams, and the grocery keepers furnish the seasonin'."