Democratic Sentinel, Volume 17, Number 33, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 1 September 1893 — COMIN' TO THE FAIR. [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

COMIN' TO THE FAIR.

My darter writ a letter an’ sed I Jes mas cum l* tee th’ great White City—no use t* stay t’ hum T’ pile up useless dollars fer other folks V spend; Fer life Iz short at best, she says, no tollin' where ’twill end. She savg an oddlcatlon kin be got frura jes this fair, An’ er’ry syence in th' wurld kin best be mastered thare Mow, eddlcntioniz a thing I alius hankered arter. So thinks I. “Jonas, here’s yer chance ts git a leetle smarter.” She sez it s reely ekal f a trip around th* earth, Fsr ev'rythln; lz thare t* see thet iz of eny worth;

An’ thet th’ best frum ev’ry lan’ Is gathered thare beside Th’ fare blew lake upon whose brest a tbousau’ vessels ride. An’ thet a fairy wurld iz formed ez perfec’ ez a dream Frum all these parts o’ forrio’ lands, sech as I’d never seen—’ihet inoddel villages are bro’t frum all th' • other lands, T’ show thare ways o’ livin’ an’ let folks boar thare hands. Now thet I cau't quite swaller, fer a village ain’t a thing T’gallivant around the wurld like a bird upon th' winir. Fer bow cud thay move Hlck’ry Grove, I’d like t’ hear ’em tell. With its trees thet tower fifty feet an’ Its wonderful town well? Now, Sarah alius told lb’ truth when she wus jest a child But, by livin’ lu Chicago, I recon she’s been spiled; She ses she’s seen th’ Eskimo an’ lazy Hotentot, An' fishos every earthly kin’ thet ever man hez cot An’ floweis till 'twuz hard t’ think thet God hed made ’em all, Ther wuz s’ monny kinds In bloom In hortycult'rnl hall. Well, 1 won’t try t’ tell It all, fer it tuk a day about lllght In th’ midst o’ plowin’ time fer me t* make It out But I rnado up my min’ the things vat wuth a bein’ seen An’ if I don’t git t’see ’om, ye kin call me purty green; Fer if thar ain’t another soul goes thar frum this yere town Thar’s one a coin’ and his name Is Beacon Jonas Brown. I’ll Jes hill up th taters bout one time more an’ thru I'll shuck my jeans an’ hlck’ry shirt an’ dress like city men An’ when folks see me oomln’, with slow an’ stately move, They’ll never guess I’m Farmer Brown, frum back o’ Hlck'r.v Grove. Then If th’ brothers in thl’ church sees fit t* turn me out Becoz about the Sabbath day they’re makln’ sech a shout, When the Lord looks up my record fer more’n sixty year I recon thet he’ll overlook a trifle like this yere. Now, I Jes’ want t’ send this word so Chicago kin prepair An’ wash up her best buggy t’ take me V th’ Fair. An’ Mrs. Potter Palmer, who reely seems t’ be A entertainin’ every one frum hum an' crost ih’ sea Kin set about thi9 time nex’ weok fer entertainin’ me. She needn’t kill no chickens ner make no extry fuss, Fer If her vlttals ain’t so good. 1 recon I’ve ot wuss. I’ll jes set down t’ th’ table ez common es kin be. What Potter eats fer every day lz good enuff fer me. —Chicago Inter Ocean.