y Annamariar
Huggins iv Peotone. Ye can't keep her away fr'm a romantic novel.
No matther what Edward Atkinson tells ye, she prefers 'Th' Age iv
Chivalry' to th' mos' atthractive housewurruk. A woman's readin'
is niver done. Hardly a day passes but some lady frind iv mine
stops me on me way to catch a car, an' asks me if I don't regard
Morse Hewlett as th' gr-reatest an' mos' homicidal writer iv our
time, an' what I've got to say about Hinnelly's attack on Stevenson.
'Madam,' says I, 'I wud n't know Morse if I was to see him goin'
down th' sthreet ax in hand, an' as f'r Hinnelly, his name escapes
me, though his language is familiar to anny wan who iver helped
load a scow. Stevenson,' I says, 'does n't appeal to me, an' if
he shud, I'll revarse th' decision on th' ground iv th' bad prevyous
charackter iv th' plaintiff, while,' I says, 'admittin' th' thruth
iv what he said. But,' says I, 'th' on'y books in me libr'y is
th' Bible an' Shakspere,' says I. 'They 're gr-reat f'r ye,' says
she. 'So bully f'r th' style. D' ye read thim all th' time?' she
says. 'I niver read thim,' says I. 'I use thim f'r purposes iv
definse. I have niver read thim, but I'll niver read annything
else till I have read thim,' I says. 'They shtand between me an'
all modhren lithrachoor,' says I. 'I've built thim up into a kind
iv breakwather,' I says, 'an' I set behind it ca'm an' contint
while Hall Caine rages without,' says I.

"Yes, sir, th' readin' an' writin' iv books is as much woman's
wurruk as th' mannyfacther iv tidies. A woman is a nachral writer.
She don't mind givin' hersilf away if 't will bring a tear to th'
eye or a smile to th' lips. But a man does. He has more to give
away. I'm not sayin' that anny man can't write betther thin a
woman if he wants to. But so can he cuk betther, an' sew betther,
an' paint minichoors betther, an' do annything betther but nurse
th' baby--if he wants to; but he don't often want to. He despises
such thrivyal pursuits. Mos' iv th' gr-reat writers I iver see
th' pitchers iv was little, thin, peevish men that was always
gettin' licked. Wanst in a while a sthrong man got into th' game,
a bull-necked, round-headed man that might have made a fine
thrackmaster or boiler-maker, but was addicted to dhrink, an'
niver had energy enough left in th' mornin' f'r annything more
thin writin' th' best plays or th' finest novels or th' gr-reatest
histhries in th' wurruld. But if ye got at th' rale f