"I don't b'lieve it!" she sed.

"Then come down and search me," I replied.

Then resumin' my nat'ral voice, I said, "It is your own A. W.,
Betsy! Sweet lady, wake! Ever of thou!"

"Oh," she said, "it's you, is it? I thought I smelt
something."

But the old girl was glad to see me.

In the mornin' I found that my family were entertainin' a
artist from Philadelphy, who was there paintin' some startlin
water-falls and mountains, and I morin suspected he had a
hankerin' for my oldest dauter.

"Mr. Skimmerhorn, father," sed my dauter.

"Glad to see you, Sir!" I replied in a hospittle vois--"Glad
to see you."

"He is an artist, father," sed my child.

"A whichist?"

"An artist. A painter."

"And glazier," I askt. "Air you a painter and glazier, sir?"