Jonathan goes to the Express Office—His Opinion of Zeke Jones and the "Brother Jonathan" Newspaper—Explains his Absence, and enters into a new Agreement with the Editors.

Dear Par:

Arter I'd made a visit to Miss Elssler, I went up to my room, as I was a telling you, and begun to think over what we'd been a talking about, and it made me feel sort of streaked to think she took me for one of the Editors of the Express, when I was eenamost scared to death for fear they wouldn't print my letters agin, arter I give them the mitten so slick, and went off to Weathersfield. I didn't suppose the critters ever knew what it was to be humsick, as I was in this tarnal place, and was afeard they might rise right up agin having anything to do with me. But think sez I, there's nothing like keeping a stiff upper lip, and putting on airs of independence, and talking right up to these newspaper chaps; so I on with my hat, and cut along towards the Express Office, detarmined to du up my chores in that quarter, without chawing over the matter any longer.

Wal, I streaked it along about the quickest, like a string of onions broke loose at the leetle eend. I begun to feel awful anxious jest as I got in sight of the office, and the feeling made me slack foot and ketch breath, I can tell you. As I went by the corner in a sort of a half canter, with my hands in both pockets—for I felt kinder ashamed of the streaked mittens marm knit for me when my yaller gloves wore out, they didn't exactly gibe with my other fix up—the people stopped and stared like all possessed.

"If that aint Mr. Slick!" sez one;—"Sure enough," sez another, "so it is." "Didn't I tell you he wasn't dead," sez another.

With that I shirked up a leetle, and sez I to myself, sez I—Who cares if the Editors of the Express be mad, cause I cut stick when they wanted to send me off to Washington, when it was as hot as all natur, and jest planting time. If my letters were good for any thing, they'll be glad on 'em agin, and if they aint, why I'll let 'em see that I'm a true born ginuine American, died in the wool, and that I can up stakes and go hum agin in the old sloop as independent as a cork screw.

Arter I'd hung about the corner of the office a leetle while, I got up pluck, and walked right straight ahead into the office. I begun to feel to hum the minit I opened the door—every thing looked so nat'ral. There was the counter, jest like old times, and the pigeon holes stuck full of newspapers, and a pile of white printer's paper a lying up in one corner, and there sot the clark, a rale ginuine cute leetle Yankee; he was a writing on leetle scraps of brown paper, and a looking as if all creation would stop if he didn't go ahead.

I jest give a peak in for a minit and streaked it up stairs, to see if I couldn't find somebody there. I wish you could have seen how the work hands stared and looked at one another when I went in, but I didn't stop to say nothing to nobody, but up I went, through a room chuck full and brimming over with work hands, and there in a leetle room, about as big as an undersized calf pen, sot the critter hisself, eenamost buried up in a pile of newspapers. It raly did my heart good to look at him, he'd grown so chirk and hearty, it seemed to me as if he must a fatted up two inches on the ribs since I'd seen him.

"Gracious me," sez I to myself, "I kinder wish I'd stuck to and tried to tucker it out last year, and mebby I should a had something to fat up about. Now I wonder what he's a reading that tickles him so."

Jest as I was a thinking this, the Editor of the Express he looked up, and see me a standing there, as if I'd been a growing on that identical spot ever since last summer. Gauly offilus! but didn't the newspapers fly, when he was sartin who it was. I see that he was eenamost tickled to death to see me agin.

"I hain't lost my chance here yet," sez I to myself, and so I walked right straight up to him, and held out my fist, mitten and all, and sez I—

"How do you do?"—jest so.

"Why Mr. Slick," sez he, "where did you come from?"

"Right straight from hum," sez I; "but how du you git along about these times—every thing going along about straight, I s'pose."

By this time he seemed to think that there was something that he ought to git mad about. You'd a thought he'd swollered a basket of cowcumbers all of a sudden, he looked so frosty.

"Now for it," sez I to myself.

"Mr. Slick," sez he, a looking as parpendicular as if he'd eat tenpenny nails for breakfast, and topped off with a young crowbar, "Mr. Slick, I'm happy to see you in York agin, but what on arth was the reason that you left us in the lurch about them letters from Washington?"

"Did you ever have a touch of humsickness?" sez I, a straightening up and putting my hands in my pockets, till the tip eend of my nose eenamost come on a level with his'n.

"I ruther think I have," sez he, a hitching up his shoulders.

"And the ager, too?" sez I.

"Don't mention it," sez he, jest a shaking the leastest mite all over with thinking about it.

"Awful sort of a chilly animal, that ager, ain't it?" sez I.

"Dreadful," sez he.

"Didn't it seem as if you'd have to take up all your bones for salt and battery on one another, afore they'd keep still?" sez I.

"A most," sez he, a larfing.

"Wal," sez I, "I didn't ketch the fever and ager."

"What did you ketch, then?" sez he, sort of impatient.

"Oh, I felt kinder as if I should git it if I didn't go hum and doctor," sez I.

"But that wasn't quite reason enough for your goin off so," sez he.

"Wasn't it?" sez I, "but that wasn't all; I got a letter from par, and he wrote that marm was ailing, and that he was getting down in the mouth, and didn't feel very smart himself, and there wasn't nobody to weed the onions—only Judy White—and she seemed sort of molancholy, and so"——

"Oh, I understand," sez he, a cutting me off short in what I was going to say. I guess he took notice how the blood biled up in my face, for he went right to talking about something else as nat'ral as could be.

So arter confabulating a spell about things in general, the Editor of the Express he begun to poke around among the newspapers agin, and to hitch around as if he'd jest as lief I wasn't there. I pulled out my mittens, for it was cold enough to snap a feller's ears off, early as it was. So I put 'em on sort of deliberate, and begun to smooth up the red and blue fringe on the top, jest as if I wanted to go, and yet didn't feel in much of a hurry.

By-am-by I got up, and sez I, "Wal, good-day—I s'pose it's about time for me to be a jogging."

"Don't be in a hurry, Mr. Slick," sez he, a fumbling over the newspapers all the time.

Think sez I, "If you have any notion to print my letters, it's about time to come up to the scratch tu once;" but he kept on a reading, and sez I, a sliding back'ards towards the door,—

"I shouldn't be in such a pucker to go, but I want to stop at the office of the Brother Jonathan to see Zeke Jones, from our parts. He's a prime feller, Zeke is; one of them sort of chaps that make one proud of human natur. We used to be as thick as three in a bed afore either of us took to literature. I haint seen him since, but his stories are the clear grain and no chaff, ginuine all over, and enough to bring the tears into a feller's eyes once in a while, I can tell you. The critter 'll go right off the handle when he sees me, he'll be so tickled," sez I, "and I haint no doubt but he can get the editors of that creation large paper to print some of my letters for me."

"There," think sez I, "if that don't bring him up to the trough, fodder or no fodder, I don't know what will."

Sure enough, I hadn't but jest got the words out of my mouth, when the chap he spoke up like a man.

"Mr. Slick," sez he, "don't think of sich a thing as writing for any paper but the New York Express. I can't bear the idee of it a minit. You raly can't think how bad we felt for fear you was dead when we didn't git no more letters from you arter you went to Weathersfield. Now what do you say to staying in New York and going ahead agin? Supposing you pull off your mittens and take hold now?"

I seem'd to sort of deliberate a spell, for I didn't want him to think I come to York a purpose to stay; so arter a while sez I,—

"Wal, I'll think about it. Par is a getting old, but I guess he'd about as lief do the foddering an help marm about the chores as not this winter, and mebby Captain Doolittle will board there and help about when he hives up for the winter. But I don't jest know how to manage it. I hain't no go-to-meeting clothes, that are quite up to the notch. The knees of my dandy trousers bust out the fust time I got down to weed onions in 'em, and I feel rather unsartin how this new fix of mine would take the gals' eyes in Broadway."

"Oh! don't stand on trifles Mr. Slick," sez he, "Editors never do,"—and with that he took a squint at my trousers, as if he was mightily tickled with the fit of 'em and wanted to get a pattern. This sot me in conceit of 'em a leetle.

"A feller might see that with half an eye, any how," sez I. "But now I come to think of it, this ere suit of go-to-meeting clothes that I've got on aint to be sneezed at, now, are they? Marm spun and made them for me afore I cum away from hum. She cut 'em by my dandy coat and trousers, and got a purty scrumptious fit. So mebby they'll be jest the thing. Every body in Weathersfield took to cuttin their clothes arter mine," sez I, sort of bragging,—because, you know, with some folks it's best to put the best foot for'ard, and pass for all you're worth, and sometimes for a leetle more, tu.

It's all a mistake for a man to think tu well of himself; but the experience I've had here in York tells me, that a man, to make others think well of him, must make the most of himself and of all his imperfections. "A good outside for the world, and a good heart within," was one of the best lessons you larned me, par, when I left Weathersfield for York. So sez I to the editor, standing as straight as a broomstick, and striking my hand upon my hat, and then putting both in my pockets, to appear sort of independent,—

"If you think they'll du, why I don't care if I hitch tackle with you agin; but if the notion takes me to cut stick for Washington or Weathersfield some of these days, I ain't sartin but you'll find me among the missing, but howsomever, I'll give you a try at a few letters; but I've got my hand out, I can tell you. Stringing onions and writing letters on genteel society, ain't the same thing by no sort of means. So now that's all settled, I'm off like shot off a shovel."

With that I shook hands with the Editor of the Express, and made tracks for the sloop about the tickledest feller that ever you did see.

Your loving son,

Jonathan Slick.