Chapter XIV Our Postal Arrangements
nock at the door.
Complaints made to the President of Happy-Thought Hall of the non-delivery or late delivery of letters, and newspapers.
I promise to see to it.
“George,” I say to our servant, “let me see the postman when he comes.” George grins, says Yes. Exit George.
Why does he grin?
Half an hour after this I am in the yard. I hear a shrill piping voice. It says, “It carnt b’ elped n’ow. ’Taint no farlt o’ mine. It’s them at th’ office as is irregylar. I says to them, I do, allus; come now, I says, you ain’t to your time, I says, which you carnt say to me all the years as I’ve been up-a-down on this road, summer nor winter, and no one never lost nothin’ nor complainin’. Tell the gendlemun fromme as——” here I step in, and interrupt an old woman talking. I ask. “Has the postman come?”
The old woman with a bag bobs a curtsey, and says,
And so she is; and has “carried the bag”—only without the dishonesty of a Judas—for the last twenty years. Wonderful old lady. About seventy, and walks twelve miles, at least, in all weathers, every day of her life.
A little girl, her granddaughter, walks by her side, and a sharp terrier accompanies the pair.
Poor old woman! blind.
I am disarmed.
The little girl informs me that “it’s the folks at the post office as is wrong.”
Generally true.
“Good-bye old Martha, and here’s a Christmas-box for you.”
“Ar, thank’ee kindly, sir.”