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Updated: May 6, 2025
However, I reached my destination this time just as the last streak of daylight had departed. I had some difficulty in making the people I met understand that I wanted the postmaster's house. No one, it appeared, could speak a word of German. At length I found the place; but a new difficulty arose. The postmaster, it seemed, was away, as far as I could make out from his wife.
As nothing was said about the postmaster's receipt, he could conjecture no reason for the look other than that Gowan was planning to render him ridiculous with some cowboy trick.
Several times, in the postmaster's absence, I registered letters for myself, or for someone else, the law of the nation being suspended by general consent. Our stores, as I have said, were small, yet many of their shelves were empty. Oftentimes there was no flour to be had, no meat, cereals, canned goods, coffee, sugar, or oil.
I'll take the hat. Good night!" While walking up the hill Furneaux fanned himself with the straw hat. "One small bit of my brain is evidently a hereditary bequest from a good-natured ass!" he communed. "Here am I, Furneaux, plagued beyond endurance by a first-class murder case, and I must go and busy myself with the love affair of a postmaster's daughter and a feather-headed novelist!"
"You must excuse me, gentlemen, but the discussion of these topics has quite unnerved me. Allow me to share with you a thimbleful." Fitz drained his glass, cast his eyes upward, and said solemnly, "To the repose of the postmaster's soul." The Garden Spot of Virginia seeks an Outlet to the Sea
I consistently refuse to believe that any good thing can come out of this deplorable affair." Just at this moment there was a knock at the door and I hurried out. The postmaster's boy was there with a telegram. I tore it open, glanced at it, and dashed back into the room. "What is it now?" cried Ismay, beholding my face. I held out the telegram. It was from Aunt Cynthia.
That was, perhaps, the strangest outcome of the tragedy. Doris was easily the prettiest and most intelligent girl in the village, a rare combination in itself, even among young ladies of much higher social position than a postmaster's daughter. But her father was a self-educated man, whose life had been given to books, whose only hobby was the culture and study of bees.
Teeters threw out his mail carelessly. "Just weigh up them letters, will you?" The name of the head of the Astor family caught the postmaster's eyes and he looked his astonishment. "I'm expectin' him out next summer," Teeters said casually. "You don't say?" with a mixture of respect and skepticism. "Visitin'?"
It was a small frame structure, with the wing of the postmaster's residence extending from the back. At the right of the entrance was a small show window holding two watches with shut, chased silver lids, and a small pasteboard box lined with faded olive-colored plush containing two plated nut crackers and six picks. The postmaster was the local jeweller.
Posterity has forgotten the stirring conflict, but Cooper's books will never fail to fire the heart and brain of every mother's son for all time. In a skiff, spreading a sprit sail, they crossed the Rhine at Bingen by that postmaster's assurance of "Certainly, as good a ferry as there is in Germany. Ja Ja we do it often."
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