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But what if we find the parole board turned into an accessory of the secret service or spy system, and learn that an applicant for parole, whether or not he have maintained good conduct during his term, may yet hope for a favorable report on his case if he will consent to betray some man on whom the police have not yet been able to lay their hand? Here comes a postoffice thief, for example.

November 15 Distinguished Service Medal conferred on General Pershing at his headquarters in France by General Tasker H. Bliss. United States Postoffice department takes control of all ocean cable lines, consent of other governments having been obtained. Prof. Thomas G. Masaryk proclaimed President of the new Czecho-Slav republic.

A good hardware store in a country town is a center of democracy for town and country alike. In what other place do farmers and artisans, country women and city women meet on so nearly equal terms? Not in the postoffice, nor in the bank; and certainly not in the department store.

Madly anxious when there was nothing for her at the postoffice, trembling and joyful when she received through the small window a letter wherein she recognized the large handwriting of her beloved, she devoured her reminiscences, her desires, and her hopes. Thus the hours passed quickly. The morning of the day when he was to arrive seemed to her to be odiously long.

"You'll remember, I take it, my asking you to tell me the meaning of the marks on the flap of the grey envelope. I'll admit I was slow, criminally slow, in coming to the conclusion that 'Pursuit! referred to a place rather than an act. But I got it finally and I found Pursuit not much left of it now; it's not even a postoffice.

I gave you three sovereigns to change into postoffice orders for my mother, and she she never had them; she never got any of my letters, she thought me cold, heartless, unfeeling she, my mother, the one I love best in the world. You, you held back the letters, you kept the money dare you deny it?" "Oh, dear, what a fuss!" said Bertha.

Saturday is a well known day in the western and southern country for making a village gathering; and when Brother Stevens, having hitched his horse at the public rack, pushed his way to the postoffice, he had no small crowd to set aside.

"Where can I get a flatiron?" I inquired at the Postoffice when I first entered the village. "Most likely at Burridge's," was the reply. "Do you know where I can get a pair of row-locks?" I asked of a boy who was lounging about the town dock. "At Burridge's," he replied.

Before we went into the wards the physician in charge took us all over the buildings, showed us where the old bandages were being washed and cleaned, where the instruments were sharpened and repaired, where the stretchers and crutches, and "first aid to the injured" satchels were kept. We were taken through the postoffice, where all the mail comes and goes from the front.

We were allowed to write home, and by putting on a Confederate postage stamp costing 10 cents each, were promised that our letters would be forwarded to our friends, provided there was nothing objectionable in them. We were obliged to leave them unsealed, so they could be examined by the postoffice department, and in order to ensure an examination they must be limited to fifty words.