_i seen a Chinese cook in
hong kong could cook flapjacks
like your mother_
_a mishnery that sells Rum
is the menest of Gods crechers_
_a bulfite is not what it is
cract up to Be_
_the dagos are wussen the
brutes_
_i am 6 1-3/4
but my Father was 6 foot 4_
The seamstress had taught school one winter, and she could not refrain
from making an attempt to reform Mr. Smith's orthography. One evening,
in answer to this communication,--
_i killd a Bare in Maine 600
lbs waight_
she wrote:--
_Isn't it generally spelled Bear?_
but she gave up the attempt when he responded:--
_a bare is a mene animle any
way you spel him_
The spring wore on, and the summer came, and still the evening drink and
the evening correspondence brightened the close of each day for the
little seamstress. And the draught of porter put her to sleep each
night, giving her a calmer rest than she had ever known during her stay
in the noisy city; and it began, moreover, to make a little "meet" for
her. And then the thought that she was going to have an hour of pleasant
companionship somehow gave her courage to cook and eat her little
dinner, however tired she was. The seamstress's cheeks began to blossom
with the June roses.
And all this time Mr. Smith kept his vow of silence unbroken, though the
seamstress sometimes tempted him with little ejaculations and
exclamations to which he might have responded. He was silent and
invisible. Only the smoke of his pipe, and the clink of his mug as he
set it down on the cornice, told her that a living, material Smith was
her correspondent. They never met on the stairs, for their hours of
coming and going did not coincide. Once or twice they passed each other
in the street--but Mr. Smith looked straight ahead of him about a foot
over her head. The little seamstress thought he was a very fine-looking
man, with his six feet one and three-quarters and his thick brown beard.
Most people would have called him plain.
Once she spoke to him. She was coming home one summer evening, and a
gang of corner-loafers stopped her and demanded money to buy beer, as is
their custom. Before she had time to be frightened, Mr. Smith
appeared,--whence, she knew not,--scattered the gang like chaff, and
collaring two of the human hyenas, kicked them, with deliberate,
ponderous, alternate kicks, until they writhed in ineffable agony. When
he let them crawl away, she turned to him and thanked him warmly,
looking very pretty now, with the color in her cheeks. But Mr. Smith
answered no word. He stared over her head, grew red in the face,
fidgeted nervously, but held his peace until his eyes fell on a rotund
Teuton passing by.
"Say, Dutchy!" he roared. The German stood aghast. "I ain't got nothing
to write with!" thundered Mr. Smith, looking him in the eye. And then
the man of his word passed on his way.
And so the summer went on, and the two correspondents chatted silently
from window to window, hid from sight of all the world below by the
friendly cornice. And they looked out over the roof and saw the green of
Tompkins Square grow darker and dustier as the months went on.
Mr. Smith was given to Sunday trips into the suburbs, and he never came
back without a bunch of daisies or black-eyed Susans or, later, asters
or golden-rod for the little seamstress. Sometimes, with a sagacity rare
in his sex, he brought her a whole plant, with fresh loam for potting.
He gave her also a reel in a bottle, which, he wrote, he had "maid"
himself, and some coral, and a dried flying-fish that was something
fearful to look upon, with its sword-like fins and its hollow eyes. At
first she could not go to sleep with that flying-fish hanging on the
wall.
But he surprised the little seamstress very much one cool September
evening, when he shoved this letter along the cornice:--
[Illustration: Handwritten letter]
Respected and Honored Madam:
Having long and vainly sought an opportunity to convey to you
the expression of my sentiments, I now avail myself of the
privilege of epistolary communication to acquaint you with the
fact that the Emotions, which you have raised in my breast, are
those which should point to Connubial Love and Affection rather
than to simple Friendship. In short, Madam, I have the Honor to
approach you with a Proposal, the acceptance of which will fill
me with ecstatic Gratitude, and enable me to extend to you those
Protecting Cares, which the Matrimonial Bond makes at once the
Duty and the Privilege of him, who would, at no distant date,
lead to the Hymeneal Altar one whose charms and virtues should
suffice to kindle its Flames, without extraneous Aid
I remain, Dear Madam,
Your Humble Servant and
Ardent Adorer, J. Smith.
The little seamstress gazed at this letter a long time. Perhaps she was
wondering in what Ready Letter-Writer of the last century Mr. Smith had
found his form. Perhaps she was amused at the results of his first
attempt at punctuation. Perhaps she was thinking of something else, for
there were tears in her eyes and a smile on her small mouth.
But it must have been a long time, and Mr. Smith must have grown
nervous, for presently another communication came along the line where
the top of the cornice was worn smooth. It read:
_If not understood will you
mary me_