_have ben most Every thing farmed a Spel in Maine Smith_ As she read this, the seamstress heard the church clock strike nine. "Bless me, is it so late?" she cried, and she hurriedly penciled _Good Night_, thrust the paper out, and closed the window. But a few minutes later, passing by, she saw yet another bit of paper on the cornice, fluttering in the evening breeze. It said only _good nite_, and after a moment's hesitation, the little seamstress took it in and gave it shelter. * * * * * After this they were the best of friends. Every evening the pot appeared, and while the seamstress drank from it at her window, Mr. Smith drank from its twin at his; and notes were exchanged as rapidly as Mr. Smith's early education permitted. They told each other their histories, and Mr. Smith's was one of travel and variety, which he seemed to consider quite a matter of course. He had followed the sea, he had farmed, he had been a logger and a hunter in the Maine woods. Now he was foreman of an East River lumber-yard, and he was prospering. In a year or two he would have enough laid by to go home to Bucksport and buy a share in a ship-building business. All this dribbled out in the course of a jerky but variegated correspondence, in which autobiographic details were mixed with reflections moral and philosophical. A few samples will give an idea of Mr. Smith's style:-- _i was one trip to van demens land_ To which the seamstress replied:-- _It must have been very interesting._ But Mr. Smith disposed of this subject very briefly:-- _it wornt_ Further he vouchsafed:-- _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.