Letter Boxes
Written by PANACHE, for the ‘ Evening Star
When we acquired a front door with a slot for letters in it I was delighted. Never one to keep a postman waiting, I was yet haunted by the fear that some fateful day there would be no one at home, and an invitation slipped under the door would insinuate itsc.lt beneath the carpet, there to lie greyed by the gathering dusts of oblivion till next spring cleaning, when the party would be months in the past, and the dinner destined for me lapped by a dog, and my reserved seat occupied by the cousin. With a slot in the front door there was no such danger. I like those slots that for a penny will shoot into the outstretched hand a cake of chocolate, or even oblige with a picture of one’s future husband; but a letter slot is much superior. For nothing at all, it will drop on the floor more than manna. If the postman is no whistler, the only indication.that he has called is a tiny draught round the ankles, a mere zephyr that barely flutters the wisping locks of the old mop that is polishing the hall. And there a letter lies.
cenary as ethical and aesthetic. It is not the few shillings for the letter box that I object to so much as the dehumanising of the postmen. At present they are interested in the people whose messengers they are; they know their gardens and their babies sleeping in perambulators on verandahs; their cats, if not always their dogs. Soon they will know only numbered gates, as yet another calling becomes merely mechanical. And at Christmas time, when grateful citizens would fain refresh a perspiring postman who is their Santa Claus, they will need a long spoon to reach him on the roadliue, a long spoon such as he must needs use who sups with the devil. Still, postmasters, unlike commismissioners of taxes, are not natural enemies, arid after a protest I shall probably conform, remembering, however, that once I did have a letter box on the far up a winding path, out of sight of the house. This box was often empty, even of regular, expected letters; for there was an ardent philatelist in the street, a little, unlettered, incurious boy, whose sole idea was stamps. He took all letters he could lay hands on, tore off the stamps, and burnt what was left, unscrupulously, in the kitchen stove. This new box that I am coerced into providing must have a padlock. What it will be like in other respects I do not know, since one does not clothe the unwanted child in loving prenatal thoughts. The dovecotes and barrels of my acquiescent neighbours leave me cold, and all 1 want is a colour that does not offend the spring green of the hawthorn, a form without protuberances to spear the postman’s Adam’s apple should he crane his neck for a human look over the gate. And I should like a promise from coal merchants and .master butchers and bakers that they will not make similar appeals to us to save the steps of their employees, for_ I should hate to root up the cinerarias to accommodate, oven temporarily, a coalhouse, a safe, and a pantry flush with the roadline.
Through our slot have slipped some acceptable letters, but such traffic Iras not made it exclusive. It is just the right height for the little girl next door, who, if she is taking a short cut, stops to wave her hand through the slot. It is a charming sight to see a fat. bangled arm, severed in heraldic fashion, waving through a letter _ slot into a deserted hall, waving to a silent telephone and an unresponsive bowl of pussy-willow. This hole also serves when the hell goes on strike, for then children of a larger growth go down on all fours and “ woof ” through the opening. This “ woof ” gave me an idea. The slot was friendly and companionable. Was it amenable to reason? Could it be taught to discriminate? What an inestimable boon if it could choose between bills and receipts, between deques and demands, if it could shut its firm mouth obstinately against all correspondence of the baser sort, and spurn it as a stranger came over the threshold. But before I could develop my idea, the slot let in a traitor. Face down it lay in a shaft of thin spring sunshine. A letter from the Chief Postmaster.
I rather liked his style. Slightly pained it ■was, yet persuasive; pained because he had written before, persuasive because he obviously hoped it would not be necessary to write again. Compared with the harsh tones natural to a commissioner of taxes making his extortionate demands, this letter was almost amatory. The chief postmaster knew I had a better nature, and here he was appealing to it, appealing to my consideration for the postman, whoso daily round it was in my power to shorten by the simple act of installing a letter box on the roadline. Twelve steps it takes a postman from the gate to the front door with its accommodating slot, 12 steps along a flat, level, unslippery, unpuddled, wellswept path. On his right, as he conies in, he sees some ultra-blue forget-me-nots; on his right as ho goes out he can count the first four tulips. In another week he mav know; the colour of the new Iceland ponpies; but it I succumb to the blandishments of the chief postmaster he will never know' our Japanese irises. And, without prejudice, it will bo his loss. My objections to installing a letter box at the gate are not so much mer-
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Evening Star, Issue 23699, 5 October 1940, Page 3
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958Letter Boxes Evening Star, Issue 23699, 5 October 1940, Page 3
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