THE POSTMAN.

Otago Witness, Issue 2479, 18 September 1901, Page 71

THE POSTMAN.

(For the Witness.) By Moanaroa. The postman! Let us follow him. There he goes, whistling as usual, on his way through the village, with his leather bag hanging from his shoulder. He has a pleasant fcinile, a kindly greeting for everyone, and many bless him foi his cheery -words. What a quiver of excitement he often creates, for does he not, as it were, form a connecting link in the chain of friendship, and make the presence of distant ones seejn near? But what does he bring for these expectant villagers, who await his arrival as one who constitutes a diversion in their daily life? What news of the outside world does his bag contain? One envelope, opened by a young girl, discloses an invitation to a dance. She glances at it, then puts it aside — it is one of many. Perhaps she thinks of what she will" wear, of whom she will meet. Her lfttter is received with indifference. Others-, opened by her father, contain bills, receipts, news of the market, advice in business, and such correspondence as every man who joins the busy throng of breadwinners receives daily. The f>- )S tman has gone on. There, at that neat little white-washed cottage, a widow is weeping over her letter. Just this : "No. 166, Trooper Jones, killed in action. A brave fellow.*' Her boy, dead ; and the welcome she had been planning for his home-coming just the day before ! His letter yesterday, and this to-day! Leave her sorrowing, and follow the bringer of this news. He has just come from a pretty, homely house, nestling among bright," well-kept flower-beds. There the postman is indeed a bringer of good news. A letter from a father to his wife and children, telling of his visit to a foreign city, of the many enjoyments end exciting incidents espei'ienced on his journey, and concluding with many words of comfort and advice. How different is the next scene ! In another family, news of sorrow has been left. An errant son, expressing regret for his wayward life, and asking forgiveness, implores his father to pay his debts to save him from dishonour. It is not the first letter of the kind, a circumstance which only increases the pain. Back to the dusty road again after the whistler. There he is at the door of a small, square building, sorting out the editor's numerous letters. This small village beasts of a busy editor and a weekly newspaper. The postman rests awhile, leaning against the open door, exchanging news and notes with a few loiterers standing near, for the editoi's office forms the nucleus of the village gossips. Meanwhile the editor scans his correspondence, pro«e and poetry, song and stort\ for the mast part the work of amateurs. Some of it he places in a pile at his right hand, and some of it disappears beneath his table. -The postman has ended his discussion, and takes the road again, this time in the direction of the village school. A group of .children run to meet him, for he is a great favourite with them. A fair-haired dot, specially favoured, receives the master's letter, md hastens to give it to him. as he sits at his desk correcting begrimed copy hooks, then runs off to rejoin her companions. What message has the postman brought to this diligent, untiring worker? Let us pause awhile to discover. His face ib drawn with pain ; the contents of his letter have stabbed him to the heart. His wife, the fair, innocent giil he had wooed and won not so many years ago, had left him for another, whose talk of wealth and gaiety had dazzled her trusting, foolish mind*. The pooi schoolmaster, who had struggled to give her every luxury, and then liad pleaded with her to return, was now dealt the heaviest blow by her rejfnsal. . The postman begins to whistle again as he walks up a prim path, edged with neatly-trimmed boxwood, and delivers a letter to the little lady who smilingly waits for him at the open door. As she glances at the familiar, boyish writing, her smile deepen 8 . She knew he would not i'ail to «end his weekly epistle. It is from her only son, a young man. gone forth into the busy world to fight for his mother, his deare«t friend and companion, and. by his effovl«. to endeavour to restore her own To her once more. Amid all the gaiety of a town life, the many new faces, he never forgets that his mothex expects his letter. The whistling has ceased : the postman begins to feel the heat of the midday sun, as he climbs tlowly up the hill. Just one or two more, and his lound for the day is finished ; then back again to the centre whence these separate missives were issued. Another letter is delivered. The iecipient. a man with heavy eyelids and -i haggard face, reads it. hardly comprehending its import. A moan comes from the next room. He drops the letter, and goes to attend to his sick, motherless child. A few endearing wordf, a gentle hand to smooth the pillow, a si^n from the child, and she is quiet again. TLen he goes back tc the letter, and reads it once moi-e. It is a letter from one in comfortable circumstances to another in poverty, threatening \wy if certain bills are not paid . within -a given time. A groan escapes from the man'» tightly con^ressed iips. How Lard he has striven to avert tin* ; yet what could he do? The child must be provided with food, for had rot the doctor said that she, Lis dead wife, would perchance have lived had she had proper nourishment? What could the value of those few goods mean to that grocer? Very little. Those bills must be paid — but how? Down hill once more, 'and there, on the roadside, shaded from the hot s>un by a few branching trees, waits a white-clad Ja&icUn., 0^ surely, he lias

foT hei. Ye«, as he hands a. letter to her, he smiles, for what does that olusk mean? Now the posiman n> forgotten, his kindly word unanswered a& she leadher letter. Such words of affection and endearment! Did ever mii.den have such a loyal -sweetheart? The last letter has been delivered. hi-> bog is empty." With -i sigh of relief that theie are no " more on this warm, sunny day, the postman retraces his footsteps. Thus, in one day, come rejoicing and sorrowing, light and shade, and he who brings it comes and goes, not iinheedmgly. perhaps, for in his daily routine also there is hhow ci and sunshine.