i shall nevver be the womman i was; but that is no excus for john’s unconstancy. i don’t dare to take my close off to go to bed, and i practice clambering up and down by a rop in case, and i giv police m 25 a shillin now and than to keep a specious eye to number fore, and be reddy to ketch anny won

[pg 76]

in his harms. but it cums to munny, and particly givin the ingin keeper a pint of bear from time to time, and drams to the turncox: where there’s nabers fires will happen, howevver cerefull and precocius you may be youreself. i dred our too nex dores; number three is a gurmin fammily, and them orrid forriners think nothink of smocking siggars in bed, witch will ketch sum day to a curtainty. number fiv is wus; since his wif’s deth mr. sanders has betuck himself to comicle studis, and offin has a littel blo up amung his pistles and morters. o! mary, how happy is them as livs lick you, as the song says, “fur from the buzzy aunts of men.” if yu’re inflamd its nobbody’s folt but youre hone. pray take the gratest car. have sure eyes about you, and luck out for sparks; watever the men may say, don’t allow backerpips or long snufs, and let evvery boddy be thurrowly put out. don’t neglect to rake out evvery nite, see that evvery sole in the hows is turnd down or xtinguished, and allways blo yureself out befour you go to yure piller. thenk gudness you nevver larnd to reed, and therefor will not take anny bucks to bed with you. allways ware stuff or woollin, insted of lite cottons and gingums, in case of the coles throwin out coffens or pusses, by witch munny persons gains their ends. in case of yure pettycots catchin don’t forgit standin on yure hed, as recommended by the human society, becoz fire burns uppards, but its a posishun as requiers practis. have yure chimbly swept reglar wonce a munth, and wen visiters cum neveer put hot coles in the warmin pan, for fear you forgit and leave it in the spair bed. remember fire is a good sarvent but a bad master, and sure enuff wen it is master it never gives a sarvent a munth’s notis. to be shure we have won marsy in town that is unbenone in the country, and that is swingeing; there is no cornstax or heyrix in st. jims’s square. that is yure week pint, and i trembil for the barns; a rockite or a roaming candle mite set you in a blaze. but i hop and trust

[pg 77]

wat i say will never pruve the truth. oppydildock is good for burns, and i am, dear mary,

yure old and afexionate feller sarvent,

ann gale.