“On the land or on the sea,
    Wherever we may go,
  We are always glad to welcome
    The sound Potato."[*]

[*]The elder Miss Cobb was wrong in thinking this poem Sylvia’s.  It was extant at the time over the signature of another writer, whose authorship is not known to have been questioned.  Miss Sylvia perhaps copied it out of admiration, or as a model for her own use.

    J.L.A.

In the afternoon I was cutting stakes at the wood-pile for my butterbeans, and a bright idea struck me.  During my engagement to Georgiana I cannot always be darting in and out of Mrs. Cobb’s front door like a swallow through a barn.  Neither can I talk freely to Georgiana—­with her up at the window and me down on the ground—­when I wish to breathe into her ear the things that I must utter or die.  Besides, the sewing-girl whom Georgiana has engaged is nearly always there.  So that as I was in the act of trimming a long slender stick, it occurred to me that I might make use of this to elevate any little notes that I might wish to write over the garden fence up to Georgiana’s window.

I was greatly taken with the thought, and, dropping my hand-axe, hurried into the house and wrote a note to her at once, which I thereupon tied to the end of the pole by a short string.  But as I started for the garden this arrangement looked too much like catching Georgiana with a bait.  Therefore, happening to remember, I stopped at my tool-house, where I keep a little of everything, and took from a peg a fine old specimen of a goldfinch’s nest.  This I fastened to the end of the pole, and hiding my note in it, now felt better satisfied.  No one but Georgiana herself would ever be able to tell what it was that I might wish to lift up to her at any time; and in case of its being not a note, but a plum—­a berry—­a peach—­it would be as safe as it was unseen.  This old house of a pair of goldfinches would thus become the home of our fledgling hopes:  every day a new brood of vows would take flight across its rim into our bosoms.

Watching my chance during the afternoon, when the sewing-girl was not there, I rushed over and pushed the stick up to the window.

“Georgiana,” I called out, “feel in the nest!”

She hurried to the window with her sewing in her arms.  The nest swayed to and fro on a level with her nose.

“What is it?” she cried, drawing back with extreme distaste.

“You feel in it!” I repeated.

“I don’t wish to feel in it,” she said.  “Take it away!”

“There’s a young dove in it,” I persisted—­“a young cooer.”

“I don’t wish any young cooers,” she said, with a grimace.

Seeing that she was not of my mind, I added, pleadingly; “It’s a note from me, Georgiana!  This is going to be our little private post-office!” Georgiana sank back into her chair.  She reappeared with the flush of apple-blossoms and her lashes wet with tears of laughter.  But I do not think that she looked at me unkindly.  “Our little private post-office,” I persisted, confidingly.