Now it is unlikely that in the whole round and range of conversational commonplaces there was one other greeting that could have induced the seamstress to continue the exchange of communications. But this simple and homely phrase touched her country heart. What did “_groing weather_” matter to the toilers in this waste of brick and mortar? This stranger must be, like herself, a country–bred soul, longing for the new green and the upturned brown mould of the country fields. She took up the paper, and wrote under the first message: _Fine_ But that seemed curt; _for_ she added: “_for_” what? She did not know. At last in desperation she put down _potatos_. The piece of paper was withdrawn and came back with an addition: _Too mist for potatos._ And when the little seamstress had read this, and grasped the fact that _m–i–s–t_ represented the writer’s pronunciation of “moist,” she laughed softly to herself. A man whose mind, at such a time, was seriously bent upon potatos, was not a man to be feared. She found a half–sheet of note–paper, and wrote: _I lived in a small village before I came to New York, but I am afraid I do not know much about farming. Are you a farmer?_ The answer came: _have ben most Every thing_ _farmed a Spel in Maine_ _Smith_ As she read this, the seamstress heard a 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. * * * * * [Illustration] 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_ [Illustration] Further he vouchsafed: _i seen a chinese cook in hong kong could cook flapjacks like your Mother_