any that lay round Mr. Moons'es, beautiful as it wuz.

Echoes of music sweeter fur than wuz a soundin' from the band
down by the shore, music heard by some finer sense than heard
that, heavenly sweet, heavenly sad, throbbin' through the
remoteness of that country, through the nearness of it, and
fillin' my eyes with tears. Not sad tears, not happy ones, but
tears that come only to them that shet their eyes and behold the
country, and love it. The waves softly lappin' the shore brought
a message to me; my soul hearn it. Who sent it? And where, and
when, and why?

Not a trace of these emotions could be read on my countenance as
I sot there calmly a eatin' fried potatoes. And they did go
beyond anything I ever see in the line of potatoes, and I thought
I could fry potatoes with any one: Yes, such wuz my feelin's when
I sot out for Mr. Moons'es. But I went back a thinkin' that
potatoes had never been fried by me, sech is the power of a grand
achievment over a inferior one, and so easy is the sails taken
down out of the swellin' barge of egotism.

No, them potatoes you could carry in your pocket for weeks right
by the side of the finest lace, and the lace would be improved by
the purity of 'em. Fried potatoes in that condition, you could
eat 'em with the lightest silk gloves one and the tips of the
fingers would be improved by 'em; fried potatoes, jest think
on't!

Wall, we had some lemonade too, and if you'll believe it, -- I
don't s'pose you will but it is the truth, -- there wuz straws in