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"'That, says the postmaster, sure o' support, 'ain't the question. "'I thought it couldn't be, says Abel, amiable. 'Well, what is the question? Whether prayer is prayer, no matter where you're prayin'? "'Oh, no, says Eppleby Holcomb, soothin', 'it ain't that. "'I thought it couldn't be that, says Abel. 'Is it whether the Lord is in dedicated spots an' nowheres else?
He hastily folded up his manuscript, wrapped a sheet of paper around it, sealed it and directed it. Then he looked at his watch. "Eight o'clock," he said, in a low voice; "if I make haste, the postmaster will forward my manuscript to-day." He divested himself of his gown, and dressed. Then he took his hat and the manuscript and hastened down into the street toward the post-office.
"No, suh, I allow to see the postmaster himself personal." "He's busy," explained the official. "He can't possibly see anybody without knowing his business." "Tha's all right. I've lost my pal. I wantta see " The Superintendent of Complaints cut into his parrot-like repetition. "Yes, you mentioned that. But the postmaster doesn't know where he is, does he?"
The commissioner, learning that the party had left the Grand Falls before his letter could have reached that place, addressed fresh orders to the engineer in command. These were sent under cover to the British postmaster at Lake Temiscouata, who was requested to send them up Green River by an express.
In the month of December, 1830, when I was about one month less than thirteen years of age, Mr. Simeon Heywood, the postmaster at Lunenburg and the owner of a small store, proposed to my father that I should go into his service to remain four years. An arrangement was made by which I was to receive my board and clothes, and the privilege of attending school during the winter months.
But this was "vacation," the district school was closed, and but for the household "chores," which occupied his early mornings, each long summer day was a holiday. So two or three passed; and then one morning, on his going to the post-office, the postmaster threw down upon the counter a real and rather bulky letter, duly stamped, and addressed to Mr. Leonidas Boone!
The seal, by the way, is a pompous one of armorial bearings, rather symbolical of the dignity of the Colonial Agent, and Postmaster General of America, than of the humble origin of the Newburyport printer. The writing is in the free, quick style of a man with great practice of the pen, and is particularly agreeable to the reader.
"Now then, my lads, off with you." The postmen had come into the sorting-room, and were packing their bags and slinging their parcels. "Sharp's the word." Picking up his unopened letter, the postmaster went through the public office, stood on the outer threshold, and looked up and down the street.
"Then why don't she say who sent 'em, and what they are like," said the Postmaster, "if there's nothing in it?" "Yes," echoed Dad. "Flip, why don't you?" Without answering the direct question, Flip turned upon her father. "Maybe you forget how you used to row and tear round here because tramps and such like came to the ranch for suthin', and I gave it to 'em?
This portion, it may be surmised, was composed of such persons alone as were likely to be welcomed by the postmaster. Some of these had grievances against Mr. Worthington or Mr. Flint; others, in more prosperous circumstances, might have been moved by envy of these gentlemen; still others might have been actuated largely by righteous resentment at what they deemed oppression by wealth and power.
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