'_hair_' in for me. Want me to waft this here missive over to the
milk-house to her and kinder pledge his good digestion and such in a
glass of her buttermilk?"

"No, I wisht you would stay here in the store for me while I take it
over to her myself. I've got some kind of business with her for a few
minutes," answered Mr. Crabtree as he searched out the solitary letter
and started to the door with it. "Sample that new keg of maple drip
behind the door there. The cracker box is open," he added by way of
compensation to the poet for the loss of the buttermilk.

The imagination of all true lovers is easily exercised about matters
pertaining to the tender passion, and though Mr. Crabtree had never in
his life received such a letter he divined instantly that it should be
delivered promptly by a messenger whose mercury wings should scarcely
pause in agitating the air of arrival and departure. And suiting his
actions to his instinct he whirled the envelope across the spring
stream to the table by Rose Mary's side with the aim of one of the
little god's own arrows and retreated before her greeting and
invitation to enter should tempt him.

"Honey drip and women folks is sweet jest about the same and they both
stick some when you're got your full of 'em at the time,"
philosophized the poet as he wiped his mouth with the back of his
hand.

"Say, Crabbie, don't tell Mis' Rucker I have come home yet, please. I
want to go out and lay down in the barn on the hay and see if I can
get that '_hair-despair_' tangle straightened out. She hasn't seen me
to tell me things for two hours or more and I know I won't get no