Hear in the Buzzum of my famerly I am enjoyin myself, at peas
with awl mankind and the wimin folks likewise. I go down to
the villige ockashunly and take a little old Rye fur the
stummuck's sake, but I avoyd spiritus lickers as a ginral
thing. No man evir seen me intossikated but onct, and that air
happind in Pittsburg. A parsel of ornery cusses in that luvly
sity bustid inter the hawl durin the nite and aboosed my wax
works shaimful. I didn't obsarve the outrajus transacshuns
ontil the next evening when the peple begun for to kongregate.
Suddinly they kommensed fur to larf and holler in a boysterious
stile. Sez I good peple what's up? Sez thay them's grate wax
wurks, isn't they, old man. I immejitly looked up ter whare
the wax works was, and my blud biles as I think of the site
which then met my Gase. I hope two be dodrabbertid (Dod-rabit
is an American euphemism for a profane expression which is
quite as common in this country as on the other side of the
Atlantic.) if them afoursed raskals hadent gone and put a old
kaved in hat onter George Washington's hed and shuved a short
black klay pipe inter his mouth. His noze thay had painted red
and his trowsis legs thay had shuved inside his butes. My wax
figger of Napoleon Boneypart was likewise mawltreatid. His
sword wus danglin tween his legs, and his cockd hat was drawn
klean down over his ize, and he was plased in a stoopin
posishun lookin zactly as tho he was as drunk as a biled owl.
Ginral Taylor was a standin on his hed and Wingfield Skott's
koat tales ware pind over his hed and his trowsis ware
kompleetly torn orf frum hisself. My wax works representin the
Lord's Last Supper was likewise aboozed. Three of the Postles
ware under the table and two of um had on old tarpawlin hats