WOMEN WORKERS.

Taranaki Herald, Volume LXV, Issue 145997, 1 December 1917, Page 7

WOMEN WORKERS.

WITH. THE POST BAGS. (By a Postwomah.) That first morning I realised what re. omits must suffer. 1 had a. loaded post bag on my shoulder, and the solid heavy official hoots on my feet. L had not gone far when I felt weighed to the earth. I ached at each step. Yet I must go on. I never wanted to walk again. I would with cheerfulness have done any war work however hard, at which I might sit down. I was ready to serve my country r.ftywdiofo hut. in the post office. 1 was alninst with despair that 1 finished my first journey. And how 1 look back and .wonder that T should have feit so weak. I have hardened. Igo lightly. I would rather see Bond on carrying a. post-bag than in any other way, for now that her streets are my daily work I See her in a now way. MORNING AND EVENING ROUNDS Most of us go on the morning and evening rounds; in the middle of tho day wo ore free: but T do not-cn.rO very much for tho streets when they are full. 1 know now those, cheerful early hours When a few people have all London to themselves; when in the summer mornings the. broath Of the streets seems mere miraonlously fresh than the breath of country lanes; and in the other seasons you watch the day coming in the sky while you walk in streets that are still full of the night. No one else can soo this strange half real city of the early morning. It is not enough to get up very early ono day and go out. One must belong to the pleasant company that goes about its business then, with the papers and the milk and the coffee stalls, and the let-ter-bags. Wo are most of ns women in that company now, though the milk cart that passes me each morning at one corner is wheeled by a man. Ido walks with a. stiff leg and wears tho silver badge for service rendered. At first 1 was afraid of the evening round, for I had begun in the la to autumn. I had always thought before that one hour of the night was much like another. Now 1 know the difference between the beginning and the. end of night. In tho darkness of the early mornings I always feel Die day coining. But in the evening 1 was afraid. Same of the streets were altogether unlighted, others scarcely lit at all by their hooded lamps; and the dark gateways where I had to turn in to tho heavily curtained houses were worse than tho streets. Then in time T grew accustomed, as 1 grew accustomed to the weight of the letters; and now I can go my way without seeing, T have learned the instinct of the night. Rut I lost, my fear first in finding that other timid pcoule were glad to see my lamp and to meet me in the darkness going On my round. I was a part of the cheerful daily life, which had got into the night.

TRAGEDIES OF THE STREETS. I know a little of the tragedies of a dozen streets. I could show you the houses (there are more and more of these) where I used to take letters marked “On Active Service,'' and where now I take them no longer. I should show you first the house of the old lady who had no letter-box. It is at, the ton of a.’high flight of steps—a. shabby old stureo house. The first morning that I h-d a letter for her it was too fat to slip under the door. She came to the door herself in a scarlet shawl, with her very thin silver hair drawn close down on her head. Later in the day I could see she wore a. cap. It was a- wet morning, and I had on my tarpaulin cape and hat cover. Sho looked at me twice before she realised that I was a woman. Then she hurried off leaving her letter in mthand. I waited and wondered if J should put it down and shut the door. 1 was still wondering when sho came be"k with a cup of tea.

I grew into the habit of waiting to give her the letters, though I might have slipped thorn tinder her door; she always came at once. She had many letters “On Active Service.’’ more than any other house in that street, but ix was not every morning that I saw her, for, excont for those letters f-'-om her «r,n in Franee, she had very little by tho post.

Then one morning there wore two letters. It was the first timo that T had brought her two. The one was the familiar envelope; the other I only saw as I stopped to pplateb her gate, a.nd when T saw it I would have given everything that I might have slipped it beneath the door end hurried away, ft was addressed to France, end there was written across it in action. Undelivered for this reason. The morning before she knew nothing TUd she know now? Or would she rend it first, written across her own letter? When the doer opened it was not Che old woman, but another whom 1 did not know. “Then she has hoard c [said. The woman looked at me as if she did not understand, “She's verv ill." she an'wered and took tho letters and looked at them, and turned that- one lctt°r about several times before she snoko. “Ah. poor dear," she said, and sheek her head. “Is she very ill ? ' I asked. And again she shook' her head, very slowlv- as if to sav that 'he was too ill to be able to put it adequately in words. “Perhaps/’ T sakl. if u- as ill as that von need not give it be''.” The woman nodded as she rinsed the door. Next morning there wore no letters for the old woman, hut I turned in at her pate. The same woman came to the door and she had that letter in her hands, and when 1 looked at her slm nodded. “Early this morning." she said. “I gave her Ill's lotto.-. She was ton ill to open it. hut. 1 think she knew what it was. Tim doctor Ins not rome yet. Somehow I fool a,s if sho om-ht to have this letter and I thought that as you brought it ” T took the letter from her and followed her ip, Tim oM woman was lying on her bed with her scarlet shawl about her. and for the first time 1 sow her in her can. In one hand she held her son's last letter, still unopened. I tnu"bed the fin vers that wore already '■tiff. They held it very tightly, but 1 was just -able to slip in beside it that Inst, letter of hers to him. with tho last news of him written across it. Then 1 went on my round.