them in to
suit her. Methought means the same as I thought, but sounds better.
Example: If you are telling a dream you had about your aged aunt:

Methought I heard her say
My child you have so useful been
You need not sew today.

This is a good example one way, but too unlikely, woe is me!

This afternoon I was walking over to the store to buy molasses, and as
I came off the bridge and turned up the hill, I saw lots and lots of
heelprints in the side of the road, heelprints with little spike holes
in them.

"Oh! The river drivers have come from up country," I thought, "and
they'll be breaking the jam at our falls tomorrow." I looked everywhere
about and not a man did I see, but still I knew I was not mistaken for
the heelprints could not lie. All the way over and back I thought about
it, though unfortunately forgetting the molasses, and Alice Robinson
not being able to come out, I took playtime to write a story. It is
the first grown-up one I ever did, and is intended to be like Cora the
Doctor's Wife, not like a school composition. It is written for Mr. Adam
Ladd, and people like him who live in Boston, and is the printed kind
you get money for, to pay off a mortgage.

* * * * *

LANCELOT OR THE PARTED LOVERS

A beautiful village maiden was betrothed to a stallwart river driver,
but they had high and bitter words and parted, he to weep into the
crystal stream as he drove his logs, and she to sigh and moan as she
went about her round of household tasks.

At eventide the maiden was wont to lean over the bridge and her tears
also fell into the foaming stream; so, though the two unhappy lovers did
not know it, the river was their friend, the only one to whom they told
their secrets and wept into.

The months crept on and it was the next July when the maiden was passing
over the bridge and up the hill. Suddenly she spied footprints on the
sands of time.

"The river drivers have come again!" she cried, putting her hand to
her side for she had a slight heart trouble like Cora and Mrs. Peter
Meserve, that doesn't kill.

"They HAVE come indeed; ESPECIALLY ONE YOU KNOW," said a voice, and
out from the alder bushes sprung Lancelot Littlefield, for that was the
lover's name and it was none other than he. His hair was curly and like
living gold. His shirt, white of flannel, was new and dry, and of a
handsome color, and as the maiden looked at him she could think of
nought but a fairy prince.

"Forgi