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"Clarence Pontoon, th' military expert iv th' London Mornin' Dhram, reviewin' Gin'ral Buller's position on th' Tugela, says: 'It is manifest fr'm th' dispatches tellin' that Gin'ral Buller has crost th' Tugela River that Gin'ral Buller has crost th' Tugela River. This we r-read in spite iv th' cinsor. Th' question is which side he has crost to.
"C-come and read to me won't you come and read?" "Of course I will!" "C-call to mind the first book you read to me, Cynthy?" "It was 'Robinson Crusoe," she said. "'R-Robinson Crusoe. Often thought of that book. Know some of it by heart. R-read it again, sometime, Cynthy?" She looked up at him a little anxiously. His eyes were on the great hill opposite, across Coniston Water.
And taking the initiative for the first time in his life, he stooped down and kissed her. "I knew you would be happy in my happiness," she said, the tears brimming in her eyes. "N-never have been so happy, Cynthy, never have." "Uncle Jethro, I never will desert you. I shall always take care of you." "R-read to me sometimes, Cynthy r-read to me?" But she could not answer him.
"A few days later I r-read in th' pa-apers in a column called 'Brief News Jottings, just below a paragraph about th' meetin' iv th' Dairyman's Assocyation, an account iv how justice has pursooed her grim coorse in th' case iv John Adamowski.
"C-come and read to me won't you come and read?" "Of course I will!" "C-call to mind the first book you read to me, Cynthy?" "It was 'Robinson Crusoe," she said. "'R-Robinson Crusoe. Often thought of that book. Know some of it by heart. R-read it again, sometime, Cynthy?" She looked up at him a little anxiously. His eyes were on the great hill opposite, across Coniston Water.
Bein' a busy an' fashn'able woman she cudden't raymimber his name. At times she called him 'Frank' an' thin 'Fronzwah' an' 'Fritz' an' 'Ferdynand' 'twas a name beginnin' with 'f' she knew that but he f'rgive her an' ast somewan to r-read to him. 'What shall it be? says a gin'ral. 'R-read about th' time I was christened, says th' boy.
An' fr'm that time on till he's r-ready to tur-rn in an' sleep peaceful an' quite, not like a lamb full iv vigetable food, but like a line that's wur-rked ha-ard an' et meat, he niver stops rampin' an' ragin'. Ye don't hear iv Fitz lookin' worn with th' sthruggle. Ye don't r-read iv him missin' anny meals. No one fears that Fitz will break down undher th' suspinse. That ain't in th' breed.
'Th' newspaper, instead iv bein' a pow'rful agent f'r th' salvation iv mankind, has become something that they want to r-read, he says. 'Ye can all go home, he says. 'I'll stay here an' write th' paper mesilf, he says. 'I'm th' best writer ar-round here, annyhow, an' I'll give thim something that'll prepare thim f'r death, he says. "An' he did, Hinnissy, he did. 'Twas a gran' paper.
Swedenborgian bran fried in kerosene makes th' best breakfast dish in th' wurruld. 'Twus nice to r-read. It made a man feel as if he was in church asleep." "How did th'pa-aper sthrike th' people?" says ye. "Oh, it sthruck thim good.
Ivrybody knows it. I r-read what Joe What's-His-Name wrote th' br-rave corryspondint. He says this feller was sick at his stummick an' retired befure th' Spanish fire. Why, what'd he have to fight but a lot iv ol' row-boats? A good swimmer with sharp teeth cud've bit his way through th' whole Spanish fleet. An' he r-run away.
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