Fashion is a goddess.

She iz ov the maskuline, feminine and nuter gender.

Men worship her in her maskuline form—wimmin in her feminine form, and the excentricks in her nuter gender.

She rules the world with a straw, and makes all her suppliants.

She enslaves the poor az well az the ritch, she kneels in sanktuarys, pomps in cabins, and leers at the street korners.

She fits man’s foot with a pinching boot, throttles him with a stubborn collar, and dies his mustash with darkness.

She trails the ritch silks ov wimmin along the filthy sidewalks, leads sore-eyed lap-dogs with a string, and banishes helpless children to murky nurserys, in the kare ov faithless hirelings.

She cheats the excentric with the clap-trap of fredom, and makes him serve her in the habiliments ov the harlequin.

Yea, verily.

FUN.

Fun is the soul’s vent.

Fun iz whare the kruditys eskape, where she kiks up her heels, and runs snorting around the lot, unhaltered, and az eager az an eskaped konvikt.

Fun iz a safety-valve that lets the steam preshure oph from the biler, and keeps things from bussting.

Fun iz the dansing particles, which fli oph from the surface ov unbottled cider, it iz the senseless frolik ov the spring lam in the clover, it iz the merry twinkle that kreeps down tew 94 the korner ov the parson’s eye, to stand in the sunlite, and see what’s going on.

Fun iz az karliss az a kolt, az happy az a bridegroom, and az silly az a luv-sik skool-girl.

Fun iz the holy day wisdum ov the sage, the phools pholly, and everyboddys puppet.

Next tew the virtew in this world, the fun in it iz what we kan least spare.

Truly! O! truly!

FRET.

Fret iz a kanker, a gangreene, a blister, a bile, salt on a sore place, and a sliver everywhare.

Fret iz frickshun, a dull lancet, a gimblet.

Fret makes a yung man ackt like an old one, and an old man ackt like a yung one.

Fret iz a grind stun, whare he holds hiz noze on, haz tew do hiz own turning.

Fret haz burnt more holes thru a man’s koppers that all the other hot things, it haz killed az often az the doktors hav, and iz az lawless, and senseless, az a goose.

Fret makes the husband a tyrant, the wife a plague, the child a nuisance, an old maid terrible, and a bachelor disgusting.

Fret makes home a prizon, and puts teeth into the gums ov all life’s misfortunes.

I bet! thou bet! he, she, or it, bets!

FURY.

Fury iz the tornado ov the inner man, a thunder shower, a blak kloud phull ov litening, a tiger out ov hiz kage, a maniak armed, a bull in fli time.

Fury knows no law only its strength, like a rocket, it whizzes till it busts, and when it haz bust, like a rocket, it iz but a senseless and burnt reed.

Fury iz the argument ov tyrants, and the revenge ov the 95 embecile, the courage ov the kat, and the glowing embers ov dispair.

Fury makes the hornet respektabel, and the pissmire a laffing stok, it makes the eagle allmoste human, and clothes the little wren, battling for her brood, with a halo sublime.

Indeed! indeed!

FITS.

Fits are the moral tumblings ov man’s natur, the bak summersets ov hiz disposishun, the flying trapez ov the kritter himself.

Fits prompt him tew klimb a greast pole, tew fite a wind mill at short range, to go too near a mule’s heels, and to make a kussid phool ov himself generally.

Fits taketh a man bi the end ov hiz noze, and leadeth him into bak lots.

Fits hav no conshience, and no judgment.

Fits jerk a man from the path ov duty, they knok him krazy at noontime, they seize him at twilite, and twist him arly in the morning.

Sum men, and sum wimmen, are good only in fits, and bad only in fits, when they haint got a fit they are unfit for ennything.

Yes, i think so.

FUSS.

Fuss iz like an old setting hen when she cums oph from her nest.

Fuss iz like kold water dropt into hot grease—it sputters, and sputters, and then sputters agin.

Fuss iz haff-sister to Hurry, and neither ov them kant do enny thing without gitting in their own way and stepping on themselfs.

Thare iz more fuss in this world than thare iz hurry, and thare iz a thousand times more ov either ov them than thare iz ov dispatch.

Fuss works hard all day, and don’t do enny thing, goes to 96 bed tired at night, then gits up next morning, and begins agin whare she left oph.

Oh, dear! whi iz this sutch.

FELLOW.

A fellow iz like a bottle ov ginger pop that haz stood six hours with the kork out, in a warm room—it ain’t ginger nor it ain’t pop.

A fellow iz a hybrid; he hain’t got enny more karakter than a drizzly day haz, he iz every boddy’s cuzzin, and hangs around like a lost dog.

He iz often clever, and that iz jist what ruins him. A clever phellow iz wuss oph than a mulatto.

I am sorry for this—i am aktually sad.

FLUNKEY.

Flunkeys are just abuv loafers, and just belo fellows.

They ain’t maskuline, feminine, nor nuter—they are just human dough.

They hav the currage ov a spring chicken, the ferocity ov a kricket, the combativness ov a grasshopper, and the bakbone ov an angleworm.

They are human dough made to order, and baked az yu choose.

Ain’t it orful?

FINIS.

Finis iz the end ov all things—the happyest place in the whole job.

All things on arth hav an end to them, and i kant think ov but phew things now that hain’t got two.

A ladder haz two ends to it, and the surest way tew git to the top ov it iz tew begin at the bottom.

Finis iz the best and only friend that menny a man in this world ever haz, and sum day Finis will be the autokrat ov the universe.

Bully for yu, Finis.