iver since. Thin he painted it on skins, hince th' publisher;
thin he played it an' danced it an' croshayed it till 't was
discovered that ink an' pa-aper wud projooce wurruds, an' thin th'
printin'-press was invinted. Gunpowdher was invinted th' same
time, an' 't is a question I've often heerd discussed which has
done more to ilivate th' human race. A joke.

Th' longer th' wurruld lasts th' more books does be comin' out.
Day be day I r-read in th' pa-apers announcemints iv new publications
that look like th' dilinquent tax-list. They 's a publisher in
ivry block, an' in thousan's iv happy homes some wan is pluggin'
away at th' romantic novel or whalin' out a pome on th' type-writer
up-stairs. A fam'ly without an author is as contimptible as wan
without a priest. Is Malachi near-sighted, peevish, averse to th'
suds, an' can't tell whether th' three in th' front yard is blue
or green? Make an author iv him! Does Miranda prisint no atthractions
to th' young men iv th' neighborhood, does her overskirt dhrag,
an' is she poor with th' gas-range? Make an authoreen iv her!
Forchunitly, th' manly insthinct is often too sthrong f'r th'
designs iv th' fam'ly, an' manny a man that if his parents had had
their way might have been at this moment makin' artificial feet
f'r a deformed pome is l'adin' what me fri'nd Hogan calls a glad,
free, an' timperymintal life on th' back iv a sthreet-car.

"But lithrachoor is th' gr-reat life-wurruk iv th' modhren woman.
Th' conthrol is passin' into th' hands iv th' fair sect, an' th'
day will come whin th' wurrud book will mane no more to an able-bodied
man thin th' wurrud gusset. Women write all th' romantic novels
that ar-re anny good. That's because ivry man thinks th' thrue
hayroe is himsilf, an' ivry woman thinks he's James K. Hackett.