Rensselaer Gazette, Volume 2, Number 37, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 5 January 1859 — WAIF FROM BEDOTT PAPERS, [ARTICLE]

WAIF FROM BEDOTT PAPERS,

[For the Rensselaer Gazette.

haveyouseen my last poim! Speaking of poetry, Jeff, ******* nO w there is folks that thinks there ain’t nothin in a name, but if there’s any’hing on airth that I’m pertikiler about, its the name o’ my poitry. Well, I was under consarn of mind fori days, when all to onst I thought of a name of “onmitigated mellifluosity” for my next poim, which I thought would be satisfactorily. “I’ve sot the w. rds to the “tune o’ Haddam.” I was going to tell ycu the name o’ my poitry. Its none o’ yer Hengeliner liars and sunnets —she’d better call ’em moonets with their “hidden meanin.'' Now, themrme o’ my piece conveys in indubitable intensilude my meanin—no security about it, as the Elder touchingly remarked about my illimitable conversation, tho’ it isn’t me’t orter to say it—only I feel such an onmitigated contemptuosity for Sal Hengle— that’s Hengeliner’s real name. ’Spose the critter thought the Elder would think ’twas more morantic, bein’ he’s so fond o’ poitry- —but, grandther greivous! its genniwine poitry, such as her betters can write—l ain’t obleeged to say who — and none o’ her onmitigated groanin’ about her miseries that she’s always divulgating. Speakin’o’ Sal’s name awhile ago makes me think I haint told ye the name o' my poitry yit. It was digested by sittin’ under the droppins o’ the Elder’s voice—his conversation is so uncommon searchin’ so that my dental faculties, as the Phenogerist calls ’em, act with intoxicating rapidity—my mind is exercised with incontrovertible fluctuating emoshuns and onmitigated musicus. Has the Elder read my poitry! It’s not Priscilla Poole Bedott that’ll insinniwate herself into the Elder’s good graces—l always make it a pint to be retirin before the Elder. If I was forrard my motives might be impugned—but I was thinkin’ last Sabberday, when the Elder was preachin’ with oncommon unction — mabbe you could tell him about my poitry—tain’t much, to be sure, but it might be interestin’to him, bein’twas written under religious desperation. If the Elder should be anxious to hear it, I would deny myself and try to overrate my extreme sensibility, for the Elder says “we orter do as we would be done by.” You might mention the title, which would be sure to distract his notice. Wall, what if I Ztainf told you what ’twas yit! I was jest a gwine to —young men are so hastful and impetuosity! Lawful sakes! guess when 1 begin to tell a thing I believe in finishing it s me timefor other—some folks have a way o’ talki® round and round and round foreverlastin’ and never cornin’ to the pint. Now, there's Miss Doolittle--she was Hanner Canoot afore she was married— she’s the ’tigusest indiwidual to tell a story that I ever see in all my born days. But 1 was a gwine to say—it’s an opprobriate name, tho’, ain’t it, Jeff! What is it! Can’t you vyait a minnit! Haint ye no respect for age! — tho’ I ain’t so very old arter all, tho’ Sam Pendergrasses wife allers said I looked old enuff to be her mother—the jealous thiny! But I suppose you wan’t to hear that poim—it’s called “Linkum Fiddle Faddle.” It’s a touchin’ tribure to the poor Deacon’s memory, and is prophesien o’ the future. “Fiddle Faddle” was the deacon’s favorite sentiment, and “Linkum” sniggerfies to unite my two religious gloominaries. I thought some o’ callin’ it “The Two Ebinin’ Lights,” but concluded “Linkum Fiddle Faddle” would be more strikin'.