“You don't look stout,” said he, “but you ought to be able to mow away an' rake after.” Well, I made a bargain with him, and went to work at once. My first task was to lead a great bull to water. He stood in the stable with a ring in his nose, and roared as I took him out. It was like leading a thunder-storm, but I thought of what General Washington would have done, and walked without flinching. I was surprised to see how easily I could handle the big bull with that ring in his nose. After this initiation the harvesters--big, cordy fellows--tried to bury me in the mow. They always did that with a fresh hand, “to see what he was made of.” Well, I kept my head and shoulders above the grain, although they had given me a fork with three corners on the stale. It was a hard pace they set me, and I lay down at night like a wounded soldier. 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: 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.