Dear Mister Ed

Well now, don’t I feel like six kinds of a fool?

Turns out them space rocks I rote you about last week are somethin’ else all together.

I was all set to mail one off to Texxas and wait fer the do-ray-me to roll in, when Wilferd ast what on earth I had in the box. When I showed him, he near bust a gut.

“Them rocks won’t fetch a dime a dozzen, Rodney,” is what he said.

He even showed me a pitcher in what he calls his Wicky-somethin’. Seems my rocks is called ventriculayted bathsalt or some such. Common as dirt in these parts.

So if I wanta get rich, looks like I’d best stick to the old 6/49.

Bye the bye, I got a bone to pick with you on that score.

Wilferds girl, Maralyn, says you put one of her pitchers on your paper. With her nickname, Moon Unit, up there large as life. She was some proud to hit the big time, I can tell you.

In fact, I’m feared it went to her head a bit. She says she ain’t Maralyn, or Moon Unit any more. She wants me to call her jest plain Moon.

Anyways, Darrol, I must say I was none too pleased with you lettin’ the cat outta the bag like that.

Seems Momma was rite when she tole me to steer clear of newspaper folks. They jest don’t know what the word seckret means.

Still and all, I reckon the hole thing will blow over, now that last weeks paper is nothin’ but bird cage liner.

Things are movin’ reel fast out here these days. The 22 baby chicks thats still alive is out from under my bed and all moved into a snug little place of there own out back.

I and Danny worked two days flat out to get a fence up fer when its warm enuff so’s they can run free. And its a good one.

Won’t be no kyotes or foxes gettin’ a free chickin dinner at my place. I may not be as smart as them critters, but I got ’em beat when it comes to stubborn.

We even got a fair patch of dirt forked up fer a garden, and layed down plastic to warm it up some till I can get to plantin’.

That young Danny is sure some good to work. Strong like his Dad, and not feared to get his hands dirty.

Mind you, I made him wear suspenders to hike up them skater pants whilst he worked. I promised not to tell his pals, but I tole him if I wanted someone who looks like a plummer, I wud of hired a plummer.

Darrol, theres somethin’ got me puzzled. I ain’t seen that sqwirrel Horence of late. In fact, not since back when the electrick last went out.

Sure hope he ain’t come a cropper. I was some fond of the sassy little feller.

I’ll keep you posted.

Yer pal,

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