The Whitbury Postman.

Hawke's Bay Times, Issue 1526, 18 November 1873, Page 17

The Whitbury Postman.

A TALE OF A SUDDEN PLIGHT.

BY ROBERT ST. JOUIT CORBET. CHAPTER I. JOHN SINGLETON, POSTMAN. Punctually at half-past four wj| o'clock, one cold winter's morn«M> ing, the old mail coach running between Ginborough and Scvernbridge drew up before the little post-office at Whitbury. The village receptacle for her Majesty's mails was a small redbrick house, built in the style of what I perhaps may call Noah's Architecture, for it was quite straight up and down ; it had a door in the middle, a window on each side, and three windows in a row up above. Most of us, I think, are acquainted with this style of bxiilding, it having been made very familiar with us in early days by the little wooden houses which used to accompany- Noah's ark and other nursery edifices. But, old-fashioned and antediluvian though Whitbury post-office looked, the red-brick house served its purpose well: it guarded the letters from before five in the morning till half-past seven o'clock, when old Singleton, the postman, started upon his rounds. In the little window on the right hand side of the door was the letter-box; it occupied exactly the space of one pane, while the rest of the window was taken up with sundry official notices. The majority of these notices were not of much nse to the good folk of Whitbury; very few were likely to send a letter to Bagapaloo by the mail to be made up on the 15th, and it was not very probable that many would write via Bobbatabu to any of the nine inhabitants of Waggetywag; but the notices having been duly supplied by the Postmaster-General, old Singleton would not have liked to hurt his lordship's feelings by refusing to stick them up conspicuously. He made all his show in the window, for on entering the house there was very little indeed to prove that the old man was, as he liked to style himself, "a member of the civil service and custodian of her Majesty's mails." He kept his postage stamps in a paper bag concealed in the top drawer of a very rickety old piece of furniture, and often, before he could get at this valuable bag, he had to turn out sundry old pairs of stockings, old tippets, old caps, and odd bits of wool, once the private property of the late Mrs Singleton. The bag had a knack of getting to the bottom ot the the drawer, or else it wriggled into the leg of a stocking; so that the old postmaster had to go through a regular course of rummaging before he could get at the "Queen's heads." When he had found the bag, it always took him a long time to separate the required number of stamps from their adhering fellows, and he had rather an unfortunate habit of taking a penny and giving in exchange a square bit of blank sticky border. " This is not a stamp, Mr Singleton," the purchaser would say, holding up the square bit of gummy blankness. Thereupon old Singleton would take it in his hand, examine it carefully on both sides, and then unintentionally add insult to injury by saying, " Well, you didn't give me the penny, did you?" Of course he would give you the stamp at last, but he would seldom occupy fewer than ten minutes over the transaction. It was therefore the strictest economy in the matter of time to buy a dozen stamps at one purchase, though even this piece of diplomacy was not without an attendant drawback, for when old Singleton handed you the dozen, he always looked as if he were saying, "Well, you've paid me for twelve, but it's my, firm belief I have given you thirteen by mistake." As I stated before the old man made, all his show in the window, for the invisible paper bag and the backs of the notices were the only insignia of his (post) office to be seen indoors, Every morning, however, at 4.30 a.m,, the smart mail coach with its four big horses and still smarter guard in scarlet coat, made a great show for him at his garden gate, and for a moment the square little red-brick house could afford \o look down iipon Whitbury Hall,

This grand show, however, would be only for a little while longer, for a local line of railway had been opened, and the old coach was doomed.

As the coach drew near to the postoffice, the guard would take out his horn and give the customary number of puffs; then when the coachman stopped the horses, he would get down from his perch, take out the Whitbury post-bag and descend with it to the ground. He would next open old Singleton's garden gate and walk up to the letter-box window, over which was a narrow board inscribed "Post Office." Lying on the ground, ho would find a little iron hook attached to a rope that led up to one of the firstfloor windows, and having put the hook through a ring in the mouth of the bag, the guard would hurry back to the coach and reseat himself behind.

Very soon after the coach had left, tire bag would be seen gradually to rise from the ground: up it would go to within a few inches of the first-floor window, and there it would stay till six o'clock. Old Singleton's was .the hand that pulled up the rope. On hearing the guard's horn, he would rub his eyes, grumble at being woke up, and presently stretch out his hand and reach the end of the rope fastened his bed-side ; he would then cbvw up the bag out of harm's way, fix the rope to a hook in the wall, turn over in bed and go to sleep till six o'clock. Then he would get up, open the window, and take in the bag.* Our aged friend did not attempt to sort the letters himself. That duty was voluntarily performed by a young lady lodging in the house, who liked the amusement much. She was an early riser, in winter as well as in summer, and when old Singleton took the post-bag into her sitting-room at a quarter to seven, he nearly always found her quite ready to commence sorting. Clara Kenton scarcely ever received a, letter herself, except the business one, which came regularly every six weeks, and contained her allowance from her guardian; but she was always glad when the bag was full. She first sorted for the Hall, then for the Eectory, and then for the most important farm in the parish, there being private bags attached to these houses, and then she arranged the remainder. She got through her work in a rapid and professional way, and the ancient postman could often have started before half-past seven, had he chosen to move before the duly-appointed moment. He was a most official machine, however, and would have thought he was dis obeying the head of the department — in other words, the Postmaster-General —had he left with his bag at 7.29, when his orders were to commence delivery at 7.30. With this amusement of sorting letters Clara Kenton had daily occupied herself for the last eighteen months. She was glad of the little diversion, for she had come to Whitbury in very great distress, news having reached her that her parents had been drowned on their way back from India. Accompanied by an old servant she had set out for Whitbury, in the hope of finding perfect quiet and privacy, and liking the lodgings which old Singleton had vacant, she determined at once to take them. Everybody in the village was aware of the cause of Clara's grief, and all of the poor folk, as soon as they made her acquaintance, showed themselves in every way most kind and sympathetic. The rector and his family were likewise most good-natured, and Lady and Miss Claridge at the Hall very soon became her very clearest friends. She was urged to move into a smarter house; but no, she would not forsake the aged postman, She had fitted up his comfortable rooms very prettily, and improved in many ways his not very elaborate style of housekeeping. She had done much for the garden, too, and had converted an outhouse into a very commodious stable for her little Welsh pony. Clara, on the whole, therefore, was as happy as she could expect to be, and after her great grief had somewhat subsided, she enjoyed going a little into society, and gradually grew cheerful as of old. She was very fond oi the ancient letter-carrier, and it is needless to say he was her most devoted and gallant admirer. He never gave her a square of blank border by mistake for a stamp; and but that he held the Postmaster-General to be ocularly übiquitous, he would probably have given her thirteen " Queen's heads" for every shilling she tendered. Seeing his regard for her, Clara did what she could in many little ways for her worthy landlord, and gradually her influence over him became very great. She could do anything she liked with him now, and if she taught him nothing else, she taught him charitableness, a great Christian quality which old Singleton had long neglected. He was not soured by misfortune, and made bitter by real or fancied grievances; but he.was one of those who, standing on the springiug-board of evil suspicions, jump headlong into uncharitable conclusions, He always believed the worst of a neighbor, if the neighbor went wrong in any way, or seemed to go wrong. Like many, many others

. * This was a common course of proceeding, as many readers probably know, until railways iaa mail-coaches off the jcoad,

amongst us, he would pronounce, or hint at, his verdict before he had heard the evidence f<sr the defence. Now Clara had noticed this evil propensity in the old man several times, for village sqaubblcs of all sorts were occasionally arising, and always the old letter-carrier had condemned one of his neighbors without waiting to hear the whole history of the quarrel. She had seen at once the great injustice of such hasty judgment, and indirectly had it out to old Singleton while reading' to him in an evening. The worthy " member of the civil service " had said nothing, but he had ruffled his hair a good deal, and pulled it over his forehead; this was a sure sign that he was listening, so Clara kept up his attention studiously, and hoped with all her heart that her landlord was on the high road to mend his ways. Had she talked didactically to the old man, he would probably have shuffled about on his chair, and said he wanted to count his stamps or paste up a new post-office notice; but as she commented upon what she was reading in a pleasant chatty way, old Singleton listened attentively, and unconsciously derived much good. One evening he went so far as to say lie could not conceive how any Christian in his senses could judge a neighbor until in full possession of all facts; and when Clara heard this she was necessarily reminded of King David and the ewe lamb, and might very pertinently have said, with Nathan, " Thou art the man."

She was pleased to notice that her quiet little remarks had not been without effect, and she could not but believe that if her old friend were again tempted to pass hasty judgment, he would not yield as heretofore. Little did she guess that within a few short days it would be an act of her own which would provoke criticism, not only in the post-office, but over all Whitbury.

(To be continued in our next.)