My story opens in the classic presinks of Bostin
In the parler of a bloated aristocratic mansion on
Bacon street sits a luvly young lady, whose hair is
cuverd ore with the frosts of between 17 Summers.
She has just sot down to the piany, and is warblin
the poplar ballad called "Smells of the Notion,"
in which she tells how with pensive thought, she
wandered by a C beat shore. The son is settin in
its horizon, and its gorjus light pores in a golden
meller flud through the winders, and makes the
young lady twict as beautiful nor what she was before
which is onnecessary. She is magnificently
dressed up in a Berago basque, with poplin

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trimins, More Antique, Ball Morals and 3 ply carpeting.
Also, considerable gauze. Her dress contains
16 flounders and her shoes is red morocker,
with gold spangles onto them. Presently she
jumps up with a wild snort, and pressin her hands
to her brow, she exclaims: “Methinks I see a
voice!”

A noble youth of 27 summers enters. He is attired
in a red shirt and black trowsis, which last air
turned up over his boots; his hat, which it is a
plug, being cockt onto one side of his classical hed.
In sooth, he was a heroic lookin person, with a fine
shape. Grease, in its barmiest days near projuced
a more hefty cavileer. Gazin upon him admirinly
for a spell, Elizy (for that was her name) organized
herself into a tabloo, and stated as follers.

“Ha! do me eyes deceive me earsight? Is it
some dreams? No, I reckon not! That frame!
them store close! those nose! Yes, it is me own,
me only Moses!”

He (Moses) folded her to his hart, with the remark
that he was “a hunkey boy.”

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