It is one of the lectoors you read about, you know--here. Yis, I sa
it's a great moril lectoor; I sa it boldly, because I've heerd--of
it.

The structoor of the lectoor was as they sa in architectoor of the
compost like ordoor; first a stratter of this, then a stratter of
that; that is to sa--kinder mixed, you know. It was on the
aneckdotale plan, and speakin of aneckdotes reminds me of a little
story--it is wun of Mr Ward's, by the way; it will bare repitition--
it lass, so far, stood it very well. It is of a young made, hoose
name it was Mehitabull--some of it, at least--enuff--for the present
porpussus--and of a nobil and galyunt lovyier, which his naim it was
John Jones. This young man was a patrut, tho oppoged to coershun.
The enrolin officer going his rounds was beheld by this young man
wile yit he was afar off, the site was not a welcum wun to John, and
it propelled him to seek proteekshun of his plited wun, in hoose hous
he was at that critical moment. Time was preshus. What was too be
dun? The enemy was now neer at hand. "Git under my hoops," sez
Mehitabull. The heroick youth obade.

After a pause the offisser hentered the manshun.

"Is thare any men in this 'ere hous?" sez he.

"Not as I nose--on," replied the damsell.

"Then," sez the offisser, "I gess I'll stop awhile myself."

He stopped a our. After witch he stopped anuther our; after witch he