I slept with the hired man, who had taken me to my room when I arrived, with all my pride upon me. He was a big, friendly fellow with bristling red hair, who bore the proud, sonorous name of Sam. He had forgotten to remove the puppy—so he said—and thought it all an excellent joke.
He indulged in autobiography as I lay yawning—led me through his career to romantic scenes where he first met his girl and “took a shine to her.”
“I wished,” said he, after a moment of silence, “that you'd write a letter for me which I could copy and send to her. I want it worded right up to the mark. You've got learnin', an' will know how to write a good, respectable, high-toned letter.”
I agreed to do my best for him.
Mr. Baker called us at four, and we dressed and went into the garden and dug potatoes until breakfast-time. So each day began, its work continuing in field, mow, and milking-yard until dark.
Next evening, when we went to our room, with pen and ink I sat down to write the letter for him.
“To Miss Fannie Comstock, Summerville, New York,” he dictated, in a whisper. “Dear Miss.”
He sat a moment thinking.
“Tell her I ain't forgot her,” he went on, “and that I am well an' hope you're the same, an' so on an' so forth.”
So I began the letter as follows: