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Eli Perkins (at large)

his sayings and doings
 Barrett Bookplate. 
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
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LETTER FROM ANT CHARITY.
  
  
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LETTER FROM ANT CHARITY.

[ILLUSTRATION] [Description: 627EAF. Page 045. In-line Illustrations. The first image is a pastoral scene with trees and a meandering river. The second image is of a mature woman in a cap who is sewing; the caption reads, "ANT CHARITY."]

Aunt Charity's letter from the Perkins' Farm in
Litchfield county!

I give it just as written, for I love my maiden aunt,
who stays on the old farm, runs the Episcopal church,
boards all the school-marms, and keeps splendid preserves
and sweetmeats for all her nephews when they
visit the old homestead. E. P.


Eli Perkins:

My dear Nevy—Yours received. While your Uncle
Consider was in Afriky your maden Aunt Ruth and I
thot wed get up an expedishun
to New York to do sum Spring
tradin'.

We spent 4 weeks at the 5th
Heavenue.

We are glad to get back to
Litchfield County whare there
is not so much commerce and
good clothes, but whare intelleck
is highly prized, and whare
virtue and piety shines on the
forehead of society—so to speak. We are glad to get


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back whare it don't take 100 yards to make a dress,
whare fair women don't paint their faces, and whare
dark women don't ware golden hair.

While many are ambishus to worship at the shrine
of the godess of Fashion, I am willin' to stay away
from the old girl forever. I don't want to ware white
lips in the mornin' and cherry-colored lips in the afternoon.
I don't think it is right to ware strate dresses
with no busts in the mornin' and stun the innocent
men with full busts like the Venus Medechy in the
evenin'. I don't think it is Christian for young fellers to
hold your hands, and put their arms around your waste,
and hug you tite in the evenin' round dances, when it is
konsidered hily onproper for a young lady even to smile
at a feller out of a third-story winder in the mornin'.

No! no!! Eli, such fashuns is not founded onto
the gospel. Search the good book thru an' you can't
find a passage which justifies heels over two inches hi'.
Examine the pen-ta-took from Generations to Revolutions
an' you won't find enny excuse for young ladies
bucklin' on automatic umbrellas in place of swords,
or wearin' $60 bonnets made out of two straws, a daisy,
an' a suspender buckle.

You ask me how we succeeded in buyin' things.

We can't say much for New York as a tradin' port.
New London is far cheaper.

First we went to Messur De Go-Bare's, the man
dressmaker, for we wanted to sho' our Litchfield nabers
the highflyingist stiles of the Empire City.

“Vot veel I show ze madame?” asked M. Go-Bare,
a-smilin' sweetly.


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[ILLUSTRATION] [Description: 627EAF. Page 047. In-line Illustration. Image of a woman in a cap and apron, the caption reads, "ANT RUTH."]

“Dresses,” sez I, in a firm tone—“I want you to
make me four dresses.”

“Dresses for ze morning or for ze evening, madame?”

“Why, good dresses, sir—dresses for all day—dresses
to wear from six o'clock in the mornin' till nine at
night,” I replied with a patrishun air.

“Ough! zen ze madame will have ze polonaise, ze
watteau wiz ze grande panièr, and ze sleef à la Marie
Antoinette and —”

“Yes, everything,” sez I, carelessly; “and now, my
good man, how many yards will it take?”

We, madame, it will take for ze grande dress 176
(what you dam call him?) yards. Oh! I veel make
ze madame one habit magnifique, one—”

“What, 176 yards for one dress!” I exclaimed,
holdin' my breath.

We, we,” explained the man-tailor, rubbing his
hands. “Zat is wiz ze polonaise, ze
watteau, ze panier, ze flounce, cut in
ze Vandykes—”

Good heavens, man! must I have
all these things?—and what will they
all cost?” I exclaimed, tryin' to conceal
my emoshun.

“Ough! a veere little, Madame—
only seventeen-fifty wiz all ze rare
lace on ze flounces, and—”

“Gracious, Charity, that is cheap,”
sez Ant Ruth, takin' off her glasses and a-lookin' at
the patterns. “Seventeen-f-i-f-t-y! Why, Charity,


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I shud a thot that $65 was a small figer for all these
fixins.”

“Can't you put on somethin' more, my good man?”
sez I. “The Perkinses is able, and we are willin' to
go to thirty or forty.”

“Yees, madame, I can put ze Jabot of ve-ree fine
lace in ze neck—un, trois, dix plaits.”

“All right; what else?” sez I, whirlin' my pocket-book
carelessly.

“We can catch up ze skirt and ze flounces with
bows—”

“S—sh! man, do you think I'll have beaux catchin'
up my flounces? Shame! insultin, base man!” I exclaimed,
as I felt the skarlet tinge of madenhood play
upon my alabaster cheek.

“No, sir, we want no beaux catchin' up our flounces,”
sez Ant Ruth; “we—”

“Pardon, madame; I mean ze bows will hold up ze
flounces, ze bows—”

“No, tha won't, insultin' Frenchman! Do you know
you address a Perkins?” and Ant Ruth and I turned
a witherin' look at the monster and walked, blushin',
to the door.

“Nine—nine!” exclaimed a young German woman
from Europe, wildly ketchin' hold of our clothes.
“You nix fustand putty goot Mister Go-Bare. He no
means vot you dinks. You coomes pack again and
de shintlemans explains vot you no understand.
Coome!”

We re-entered the abode of fashun again.

“What else can you put on to add to the expense


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of this dress?” sez I, in a soothing tone. “Seventeen-fifty
is too cheap for me. I'm willing to go to twenty-five.”

“Oh, we, madame, ze round point on ze flounces—
he comes very high—zat will make ze dress twent-two.”

“Nothing else? But do stop talkin' about high
flounces!” sez aunt Ruth, the color returning to her
cheeks again.

We, Madame. You can have ze side plaits, ze
kelting, ze gores, ze grande court train, ze petite gosset
on ze elbow, ze bias seam up ze back, and—”

“Heavens, man, have mercy on us! Still more you
say?” exclaimed Aunt Ruth.

We, veree much more. You can have ze rar-ee
flowers a la Nilsson, an' ze point aguille vill make ze
dress of one grande high price—grande enough for ze
Grande Duchesse.

“Wall, how high will the price be then, my good
man?” sez Aunt Ruth.

Vingt-six—tweenty-sex, madame. Ce n'est pas très
cher, madame?

“O! no, my good man, twenty-six is cheap enough.
It beats New London tradin' to death. Now give us
the change,” sez Aunt Ruth, handin' him a $50 bill
on the New London First National.

Mon dieu, madame! Zis is not change enuff. Zis
is nothing. Zis grande dress cost ten—fifty times
more!”

“Gracious! man, didn't you say twenty-six?” inquired
Aunt Ruth.


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“Oh, we—we—we—madame, but he cost twenty-six
hundred—$2600!”

Eli, I've got thru tradin' in New York. Why, our
whole crop of hay, corn, and maple sugar wudent bi
over two such dresses. Don't talk to me any more
about sity fashuns! Litchfield County will do for me,
and my old bombazine, with a new polonaise, will do
for our church for many years to come. It's good
enuff.

Yours affeckshunate,

Charity Perkins.