My eye gobbled up the seen afore me, like a young weesel a suckin' of
eggs,--when an old rinkled-featured--silver-haired and snowy-beerded
individual touched me on the sholder, and interogated me thuswisely:
"Stranger, you seem to be stuck to make out what that ere unfinished
bildin' is."
"Kerzaclee, old Hoss," sed I, "and I wouldent mind standin' the Lager to
find out."
"Come with me to yonder pile of stuns," sed the old feller, "and I will
relate a tail, which, for its mysteriousness, ukers the kemikle
analersis of a plate of bordin' house hash."
"Wall, old METHUSELER," sed I, as our legs was danglin' over the pile of
stuns, "onwind your yarn, but don't let your immaginashun go further
than a Bohemian's."
He then began the follerin' histry:
"In anshient times there was a Filosifer. HORRIS GREELEY was his
cognovit.
"He was Editor of a daily noosepaper. He took it into his nozzle one day
to rite some essays 'on what he knowed of farmin,' which he was about as
well posted on as a porpoise is about climbin' a tree.
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