Dear Miss,—It is only a month since we parted, but it has been the longest month in my life, and although I am far away it will surprise you to learn that I see you often. I see you in the fields every day and in my dreams every night.
“I don't think that will do,” he demurred, soberly, when I read it to him.
“Why not?” was my query.
“Well, it don't seem as if it was exactly proper an' good sense,” he continued, in all seriousness. “The month ain't had any more 'n thirty-one days in it—that's sure.”
I tried again with better understanding, and this came of it:
Dear Miss,—I write these lines to let you know that I am well and that I haven't forgotten you. I hope that you are well and that you haven't forgotten me. I am working on a farm, and am as happy as could be expected.
“That's good,” said he, when I read it to him; and added, proudly, with his finger on the unfinished line, “Wages, thirty dollars a month.”
I did as he wished.
“Now go on,” he suggested. “Throw in a big word once in a while.”
“Aren't you going to say anything about love?” I asked. “A little poem might please her.”