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Updated: May 17, 2025
You're goin' to say you're sorry again; I can see it in your eye. Well, don't you do it. You told me to go home and think, Jed, and those were just the orders I needed. I did go home and I did think. . . . Humph! Thinkin's a kind of upsettin' job sometimes, ain't it, especially when you sit right down and think about yourself, what you are compared to what you think you are.
This yoong man, Muster Wharton, as is goin' round so free, promisin' yer the sun out o' the sky, iv yer'll only vote for 'im, so th' men say ee don't coom an' set down along o' you an' me, an' cocker of us up as ee do Joe Simmons or Jim Hurd here. But that don't matter. Yur thinkin's yur own, anyway." But she nudged him in vain.
So she kep' on, thinkin' these dreadful sorry thinkin's, and most wishin' she'd never been made at all. You know 't wa'n't jest at fust she felt this way. Fust she thought she was a bud, like lots o' buds all 'round her, and she lotted on openin' like they did.
"I'm goin' to live to see you hang." "Now, now, old boy, that's unkind." "Jest the same it's true." "I really hope not." "I had my fortune told once." "Indeed." "The dumdest lookin' old critter in York told it." "Well?" "She gin me a good yarn, one that I'm thinkin's going to come true." "Why do you think so? I supposed you were above superstition, Mr. Jounce."
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