“No, that’s not the style,” said the young miner. “Mind, she’s a lass of eddication. She’d put it kinder flowery and soft.”
“Well, write it yourself,” said Jim, sulkily, handing him over the pencil.
“This is the sort of thing,” said the miner, moistening the point of it in his mouth. “’When the moon is in the sky—’”
“There it is. That’s bully,” from the company.
“’And the stars a-shinin’ bright, meet, O meet me, Adolphus, by the garden-gate at twelve.’”
“His name ain’t Adolphus,” objected a critic.
“That’s how the poetry comes in,” said the miner. “It’s kinder fanciful, d’ye see. Sounds a darned sight better than Abe. Trust him for guessing who she means. I’ll sign it Carrie. There!”
This epistle was gravely passed round the room from hand to hand, and reverentially gazed upon as being a remarkable production of the human brain. It was then folded up and committed to the care of a small boy, who was solemnly charged under dire threats to deliver it at the shanty, and to make off before any awkward questions were asked him. It was only after he had disappeared in the darkness that some slight compunction visited one or two of the company.
“Ain’t it playing it rather low on the girl?” said Shamus.
“And rough on old Bones?” suggested another.