You must have fallen into second childhood to think of PRINTING
such rambling hasty scrawls as I write. I never could write a good
letter; and unless I gallop as hard as I can, and don't stop to
think, I can say nothing; so all is confused and unconnected: only
I fancy YOU will be amused by some of my 'impressions'. I have
written to my mother an accurate account of my health. I am
dressed and out of doors never later than six, now the weather
makes it possible. It is surprising how little sleep one wants. I
go to bed at ten and often am up at four.
I made friends here the other day with a lively dried-up little old
Irishman, who came out at seven years old a pauper-boy. He has
made a fortune by 'going on Togt' (German, Tausch), as thus; he
charters two waggons, twelve oxen each, and two Hottentots to each
waggon, leader and driver. The waggons he fills with cotton,
hardware, &c., &c. - an ambulatory village 'shop', - and goes about
fifteen miles a day, on and on, into the far interior, swapping
baftas (calico), punjums (loose trowsers), and voerschitz (cotton
gownpieces), pronounced 'foossy', against oxen and sheep. When all
is gone he swaps his waggons against more oxen and a horse, and he
and his four 'totties' drive home the spoil; and he has doubled or
trebled his venture. En route home, each day they kill a sheep,
and eat it ALL.
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