Which is to be read, if it haint askin’ too much of the kind hearted reader.

In the first days of our married life, I strained nearly every nerve to help my companion Josiah along and take care of his children by his former consort, the subject of black African slavery also wearin’ on me, and a mortgage of 200 and 50 dollars on the farm. But as we prospered and the mortgage was cleared, and the children were off to school, the black African also bein’ liberated about the same time of the mortgage, then my mind bein’ free from these cares—the great subject of Wimmen’s Rites kept a goarin’ me, and a voice kept a sayin’ inside of me,

“Josiah Allen’s wife, write a book givin’ your views on the great subject of Wimmen’s Rites.” But I hung back in spirit from the idea and says I, to myself, “I never went to school much and don’t know nothin’ about grammer, and I never could spell worth a cent.”

But still that deep voice kept a ’swaiden me—“Josiah Allen’s wife, write a book.”

Says I, “I can’t write a book, I don’t know no underground dungeons, I haint acquainted with no haunted houses, I never see a hero suspended over a abyss by his gallusses, I never beheld a heroine swoon away, I never see a Injun tommy hawked, nor a ghost; I never had any of these advantages; I can’t write a book.”

But still it kept a sayin’ inside of my mind, “Josiah Allen’s wife write a book about your life, as it passes in front of you and Josiah, daily, and your views on Wimmen’s Rites. The great publick wheel is a rollin’ on slowly, drawin’ the Femail Race into liberty; Josiah Allen’s wife, put your shoulder blades to the wheel.”

And so that almost hauntin’ voice inside of me kept a ’swaidin me, and finally I spoke out in a loud clear voice and answered it—

“I will put my shoulder blades to the wheel.”

I well remember the time I said it, for it skairt Josiah almost to death. It was night and we was both settin’ by the fire relapsted into silence and he—not knowin’ the conversation goin’ on inside of my mind, thought I was crazy, and jumped up as if he was shot, and says he, in tremblin’ tones,

“What is the matter Samantha?”

Says I, “Josiah I am goin’ to write a book.”

This skairt him worse than ever—I could see, by his ghastly countenance—and he started off on the run for the camfire bottle.

Says I, in firm but gentle axcents, “camfire can’t stop me Josiah, the book will be wrote.”

He see by my pale but calm countenance, that I was not delirious any, and (by experience) he knows that when my mind is made up, I have got a firm and almost cast iron resolution. He said no more, but he sot down and sithed hevily; finally he spoke out in a despairin’ tone, he is pretty close (but honest),

“Who will read the book Samantha? Remember if you write it you have got to stand the brunt of it yourself—I haint no money to hire folks with to read it.” And again he sithed two or three times. And he hadn’t much more than got through sithein’ when he asked me again in a tone of almost agony—

“Who will read the book Samantha after you write it?”

The same question was fillin’ me with agonizin’ apprehension, but I concealed it and answered with almost marble calm,

“I don’t know Josiah, but I am determined to put my shoulder blades to the wheel and write it.”

Josiah didn’t say no more then, but it wore on him—for that night in the ded of night he spoke out in his sleep in a kind of a wild way,

“Who will read the book?”

I hunched him with my elbo’ to wake him up, and he muttered—“I won’t pay out one cent of my money to hire any body to read it.”

I pitied him, for I was afraid it would end in the Night Mair, and I waked him up, and promised him then and there, that I never would ask him to pay out one cent to hire any body to read it. He has perfect confidence in me and he brightened up and haint never said a word sense against the idea, and that is the way this book come to be wrote.