"'To tongue or pudding thou hast no pretence,
Learning thy talent is, but mine is SENSE.'"
"Sam," said he, and he coloured up, and looked choked with rage,
"Sam."
"Dad," sais I, and it stopped him in a minute. It was the last
syllable of his name, and when we was boys, I always called him Dad,
and as he was older than me, I sometimes called him Daddy on that
account. It touched him, I see it did. Sais I, "Dad, give me your
daddle, fun is fun, and we may carry our fun too far," and we shook
hands. "Daddy," sais I, "since I became an author, and honorary
corresponding member of the Slangwhanger Society, your occupation and
mine ain't much unlike, is it?"
"How?" said he.
"Why, Dad," sais I, "you cut up the dead, and I cut up the livin."
"Well," sais he, "I give less pain, at any rate, and besides, I do
more good, for I make the patient leave a legacy to posterity, by
furnishing instruction in his own body."
"You don't need to wait for dissection for the bequest," said I, "for
many a fellow after amputation has said to you, 'a-leg-I-see.' But why
is sawing off a leg an unprofitable thing? Do you give it up? Because
it's always bootless."
"Well," said he, "why is an author the laziest man in the world? Do
you give that up? Because he is most of his time in sheets."
"Well, that is better than being two sheets in the wind," I replied.
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