A. Ward.


1.8. THE OCTOROON.

It is with no ordernary feelins of Shagrin & indignashun that I
rite you these here lines. Sum of the hiest and most purest
feelins whitch actoate the humin hart has bin trampt onto. The
Amerycan flag has bin outrajed. Ive bin nussin a Adder in my
Boozum. The fax in the kase is these here:

A few weeks ago I left Baldinsville to go to N.Y. fur to git
out my flamin yeller hanbills fur the Summer kampane, & as I
was peroosin a noospaper on the kars a middel aged man in
speckterkuls kum & sot down beside onto me. He was drest in
black close & was appeerently as fine a man as ever was.

"A fine day, Sir," he did unto me strateway say.

"Middlin," sez I, not wishin to kommit myself, tho he peered to
be as fine a man as there was in the wurld--"It is a middlin
fine day, Square," I obsarved.

Sez he, "How fares the Ship of State in yure regine of
country?"

Sez I, "We don't hav no ships in our State--the kanawl is our
best holt."