As she went on she began to shine like a star, shootin’ on through the azure heavens for all the world like a sky-rocket.

That put me on my pluck, and I bust out just like a sky-rocket too.  My blazers!  If it didn’t make my head spin.

When I collected my idees, I thought I’d look and see if I resembled a glow-worm behind, and there, by thunder, was a long stream of light, just like the tail of a comet!  I tell you, I felt happy!  She’s regenerated me, thought I; and I, too, am one of the “shining hosts”!  And then directly, without any warnin’ or noise of any kind, all around began to look about the color of a yaller sun-flower, and I began to scent a powerful smell of roses and violets.

The female sank down in the golden air, and I kept cluss beside her, and as she kept droppin’ she suddenly changed, like the old woman in the fairy-book, into a bouncin’ girl, the very pictur of the goddess of liberty!

Arter this, she turned and smiled on me.  She looked just like alabaster cream; the most dazzlingest creetur that ever startled the beholder!

I was took quite aback when she held out her little hand for mine; I felt kinder delicate like that she should see my big jints.  But howsomever, “here goes,” said I, and I stuck out my bony fist, and, by Jupiter, it was kivered with flesh, jest as soft and delicate as Uncle Sam’s babies!!!

I stood starin’ from my hands to her about a minit, and then she bust out a-laughin’, and I bust out a-laughin’ too!

“How shaller you be!” said she.

“It’s duced amoosin’,” said I.

“Who be you?” said she.

“Artemus Ward, the great lecterer on ‘Women’s Rites and Mormons,’” said I.

At this she seemed mighty tickled.

“I heerd you speak on those momentous subjects in Liverpool,” said she.

“And arter that when I read the affectin’ account of your death in a strange land, I cried.”

“Cried?” said I, “I’m much obleeged to you, but there’s nothin’ to cry for as I know.”

“So there be’nt,” said she, puckerin’ up her pretty little mouth; “but tell me, now, is this reely you?”

“I don’t know,” said I, “whether its reely myself or not, for I haven’t seed myself—­how do I look?”

She naterally blushed and answered: 

“Ansom.”

That was too much for me.  I took her round her waist and whispered—­I wont tell you what.  She shook her head so that the ringlets fell downall over her neck like the ashes from a tobaccy pipe, and in a mighty reprovin’ manner said: 

“Artemus Ward, I am a poetess!”

(By Jupiter! that was a stunner.)

“Is it Mrs. Browning?” said I, ready to drop on my knees (thinkin’ of Robert).

She shook her head agin, and moved off, and I follered, kinder ashamed of bein’ so abrupt.  Lookin’ loftily at me, she said: 

“I must leave you.”