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· THE BIGLOW PAPERS.

No. I.

A LETTER

FROM MR. EZEKIEL BIGLOW OF JAALAM TO THE

HON. JOSEPH T. BUCKINGHAM, EDITOR OF THE BOSTON COURIER, INCLOSING A POEM OF HIS SON, MR. HOSEA BIGLOW.

JAYLEM, june 1846. MISTER EDDYTER:-Our Hosea wuz down to Boston last week, and he see a cruetin Sarjunt a struttin round as popler as a hen with 1 chicking, with 2 fellers a drummin and fifin arter him like all nater. the sarjunt he thout Hosea hedn't gut his i teeth cut cos he looked a kindo's though he'd jest com down, so he cal’lated to hook him in, but Hosy woodn't take none o' his sarse for all he hed much as 20 Rooster's tales stuck onto his hat and eenamost enuf brass a bobbin up and down on his

shoulders and figureed onto his coat and trousis, let alone wut nater hed sot in his featers, to make a 6 pounder out on.

wal, Hosea he com home considerabal riled, and arter I'd gone to bed I heern Him a thrashin round like a short-tailed Bull in fli-time. The old Woman ses she to me ses she, Zekle, ses she, our Hosee's gut the chollery or suthin anuther ses she, don't you Bee skeered, ses I, he's oney amakin pottery * ses i, he's ollers on hand at that ere busynes like Da & martin, and shure enuf, cum mornin, Hosy he cum down stares full chizzle, hare on eend and cote tales flyin, and sot rite of to go reed his varses to Parson Wilbur bein he haint aney grate shows o' book larnin himself, bimeby he cum back and sed the parson wuz dreffle tickled with 'em as i hoop you will Be, and said they wuz True griti

Hosea ses taint hardly fair to call 'em hisn now, cos the parson kind o slicked off sum o' the last varses, but he told Hosee he didnt want to put his ore in to tetch to the Rest on ’em, bein they wuz verry well As thay wuz, and then Hosy ses he sed suthin a nuther about Simplex Mundishes or sum sech feller, but I guess Hosea kind o' didn't hear him, for I never hearn o' nobody o' that name in

this villadge, and I've lived here man and boy 76 1 year cum next tater diggin, and thair aint no

wheres a kitting spryer ’n I be.

* Aut insanit, aut versos facit.-H. W.

If you print 'em I wish you'd jest let folks know who hosy's father is, cos my ant Keziah used to say it's nater to be curus ses she, she aint livin though and he's a likely kind o’lad.

EZEKIEL BIGLOW.

THRASH away, you'll hev to rattle

On them kittle-drums o' yourn,-
"Taint a knowin' kind o'cattle

Thet is ketched with mouldy corn;
Put in stiff, you fifer feller,

Let folks see how spry you be,-
Guess you'll toot till you are yeller

'Fore you git ahold o'me!"

T'het air flag's a leetle rotten,

Hope it aint your Sunday's best ;-
Fact! it takes a sight o' cotton

To stuff out a soger's chest:
Sence we farmers hev to pay ferit,

Ef you must wear humps like these,
Sposin' you should try salt hay ferit,

It would du ez slick ez grease.

"Twouldn't suit them Southun fellers,

They're a dreffle graspin' set,
We must ollers blow the bellers

Wen they want their irons het;
May be it's all right ez preachin',

But my narves it kind o' grates,
Wen I see the overreachin' .

O'them nigger-drivin' States.

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