Davie Summers sais
he seed him at it, an' it's a dooty the guvermint owes to the publik to
have the matter investigated. It's gin'rally expected, howsever, that
the guvermint won't trubble its hed with the matter. There's bin an
onusual swarmin' o' rats in the ship of late, an' Davie Summers has had
a riglar hunt after them. The lad has becum more than ornar expert with
his bow an' arrow, for he niver misses now--exceptin', always, when he
dusn't hit--an' for the most part takes them on the pint on the snowt
with his blunt-heded arow, which he drives in--the snowt, not the arow.
There's a gin'ral wish among the crew to no whether the north pole _is_
a pole or a dot. Mizzle sais it's a dot, and O'Riley swears (no, he
don't do that, for we've gin up swearin' in the fog-sail), but he sais
that it's a real post, 'bout as thick again as the main-mast, an' nine
or ten times as hy. Grim sais it's nother wun thing nor anuther, but a
hydeear that _is_ sumhow or other a fact, but yit don't exist at all.
Tom Green wants to no if there's any conexshun between it an' the pole
that's conected with elections. In fact, we're all at sea, in a riglar
muz abut this, an' as Dr. Singleton's a syentiffick man, praps he'll
give us a leadin' article in your nixt--so no more at present from--
Yours to command,
JOHN BUZZBY.
This contribution was accompanied with an outline illustration of Mivins
eating sugar with a ladle in the pantry, and Davie Summers peeping in at
the door--both likenesses being excellent.
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