in, but it's no go; they can't come it, and one of the
good-natured fat old lady-birds goes to the piany, and sits on the music
stool. Oh, Hedges! how it creaks, but it's good stuff, I guess, it
will carry double this hitch; and she sings 'I wish I was a butterfly.'
Heavens and airth! the fust time I heard one of these hugeaceous
critters come out with that queer idee, I thought I should a dropt right
off of the otter man on the floor, and rolled over and over a-laughin',
it tickled me so, it makes me larf now only to think of it. Well, the
wings don't come, such big butterflies have to grub it in spite of Old
Nick, and after wishin' and wishin' ever so long in vain, one of the
young galls sits down and sings in rael right down airnest, 'I _won't_
be a nun.' Poor critter! there is some sense in that, but I guess she
will be bleeged to be, for all that.

"Now eatin' is done, talkin' is done, and singin' is done; so here is
chamber candles, and off to bed, that is if you are a-stayin' there.
If you ain't, 'Mr. Weather Mutton's carriage is ready, Sir,' and Mr.
Weather Mutton and Mrs. Weather Mutton and the entire stranger get in,
and when you do, you are in for it, I can tell you. You are in for a
seven mile heat at least of cross country roads, axletree deep, rain
pour-in' straight up and down like Niagara, high hedges, deep ditches
full of water, dark as Egypt; ain't room to pass nothin' if you meet
it, and don't feel jist altogether easy about them cussed alligators and
navigators, critters that work on rail-roads all day, and on houses and
travellers by night.

"If you come with Mr. Weather Mutton, you seed the carriage in course.
It's an old one, a family one, and as heavy as an ox cart. The hosses
are old, family hosses, everlastin' fat, almighty lazy, and the way
they travel is a caution to a snail. It's vulgar to go fast, its only
butcher's hosses trot quick, and besides, there is no hurry--there is
nothin' to do to home. Affectionate couple! happy man! he takes his
wife's hand in his--kisses it? No, not he, but he puts his head back in
the corner of the carriage, and goes to sleep, and dreams--of her? Not
he indeed, but of a saddle of mutton and curren' jelly.

"Well, if you are a-stoppin' at Sir Littleeared Bighead's, you escape
the flight by night, and go to bed and think of homeland natur'. Next
mornin', or rather next noon, down to breakfast. Oh, it's awfully
stupid! That second nap in the mornin' always fud