nicurer sends her. And there's a box yet for the Grant
girl--her graduatin'-dress, I expect--seems she's too high-toned to wear
anything but machine-made."

The Rural Free Delivery whipped up the white horse and the stern
contours of the Rough Rider hat disappeared down the winding, shadowed
road. At last Mr. Pawket, rousing from the reverie induced by news of
the resurrection of Finn's boy, took down the bars and crossed the road
to the post-box. Dragging from his pocket a cluster of huge barn keys,
he sought among them for the infinitesimal key of the box. This small
key had the appearance of coquetting with Mr. Pawket--it invariably
disappeared behind the larger keys and eluded his efforts to single it
out; it seemed to him flirtatious, feminine; and as he stood like an old
Druid invoking the spirit of the tulip-tree, he addressed this small key
with benevolent irony.

"You'm a shrimp, that's what you are," Mr. Pawket said to the key.
"Nothin' but a shrimp.... Why in tarnation don't they have a key you can
see?... I'd hate to lose you on a dark night, I would," eying the key
severely.

But the shrimp key at least did its work, and Mr. Pawket with
unconcealed feelings of wonder and concern drew forth from the box the
letter. It was a large, rich-looking letter. The envelope was thin and
crackly, embossed with purple designs of twisted reptiles coiling around
a woman's face, and in one corner were small purple letters forming the
words "Hotel Medusa." The handwriting on the envelope was bold and
black, and the dark seal bore impress of a small winged form that Mr.
Pawket took to be a honey-bee. He regarded the letter suspiciously,
studying it from every position as he entered the kitchen door.

"Say, Mother, here's a letter. What'll I do with it?"

Mrs. Pawket came sighing from the washtub. She wrinkled her forehead as
one harried by the incessant demands of the outside world. Wiping her
hands on her wet apron, she took the letter, regarding it
contemptuously.

"Leave it be on the parlor mantel," advised Mrs. Pawket. "The twins is
comin' up the road. I can hear them hollerin' at that echo down by the
swamps. Leave it be; they'll attend to it."

Mr. Pawket, having carried out this injunction, stood by the door
considering whether it was worth while to go back to his chopping. The
sun was in the middle of the sky; he sniffed odors of the kitchen and
discerned a rich atmosphere known to his consciousness as "dinne