ground the organ while he tended door. Occashunally Mr. Bunyan
sung a comic song. The Circus was doin middlin well. Bill
Shakspeer had made a grate hit with old Bob Ridley, and Ben
Jonson was delitin the peple with his trooly grate ax of
hossmanship without saddul or bridal. Thay was rehersin
Dixey's Land & expected it would knock the peple.

Sez I, "William, my luvly friend, can you pay me that 13
dollars you owe me?" He sed no with one of the most tremenjis
knox I ever experiunsed.

The Sircle sed he had gone. "Air you gone, William?" I axed.
"Rayther," he replide, and I knowd it was no use to pursoo the
subjeck furder.

I then called fur my farther.

"How's things, daddy?"

"Middlin, my son, middlin."

"Ain't you proud of your orfurn boy?"

"Scacely."

"Why not, my parient?"

"Becawz you hav gone to writin for the noospapers, my son.
Bimeby you'll lose all your character for trooth and
verrasserty. When I helpt you into the show biznis I told you