The Superior times. [volume] (Superior, Wis.) 1870-1912, 1881-09-24
Translated for the Philadelphia Times from tl
French of Louis Collas
THE COUNTRY POSTWAR.
A Story Of a Hero.

You have often seen him pass through
the fields with hastY tread, recogniza-
bic not only by his blouse and his regu-
lation hat, but also by the sustained ac-
tlvlty of his movements, because for him
the lnstants are counted and he has not
the right to slacken his pace. An indie
fatigable walker, he accomplishes his
/ task from the first to the last dav of the
year without even resting. No matter
| though tropical sun invites all creatures
to become motionless, though the cold
be Siberian, though it it blow and snow.
he must go to the last village on his
route to carry the letters, newspapers
and prOspectUses which trade confdes by
millions to the care of the post.
The highways are not made for him:
must he not cross the country, passing
! through woods and marshes, to seek the
hut lost III the depths of the solitude, far
removed from any public road?
He travels from eight to ten leagues
| daily, making circuits, crossing brooks,
| scaling rocks, venturing into ravines and
wounding himself among the hedges and
briars. Lettering is forbidden to him.
for the official hour of return is fixed !;
tAe letters he brings back must depart
by the next mail. They are waited for
at the p0stotffce, and the least variation
OF his programme may have grave conse-
quences.
We can not without ingratitude forget
the services Of this incOrruptible messen-
ger, whose probity and zeal are con-
8tantly put to the proof, who brings us
at a certain hour our letters and our
journals, the news, the expectation of.
which keeps us full of anxiety; who con
tributes to soften for us the bitterness
of absence and distance. Imagine the
void the disappearance of these humble
functionaries would leave in our ex-
istencel
knew man who for twenty years
filled this position. A farmer soldier,
thanks to irreproachable records of
service strengthened by ttleinhuence,
he had obtained the great favor of hay
ing placed to his credit 80 francs per
month at the pOstoffice of the district.
Pere Martin was not very fond of this
| brilliant position, but he perfectly
understood his responsibility and duties;
he never complained
Everybody in the district was acquaint-
ed with this little gray-haired man with
| bronzed features, whose limbs had the
phancy and strength of steel. He was
highly appreciated, for, while. a scrupu-
lOus observer of the regulation, he never
refused to perform a service, provided it
did not conflict with his duties.
There was not a corner OF his route
which he had not passed over, accom-
panied by his wolf dog. He knew to a
metre the distance separating the small
est hamlet from the chief town of the
district, and was familiar with all the
paths and byways.
To spare himself an hours walk he
never would have thrown into a ditch
some silly prospectus or some printed
matter bearing a doubtful address; if he
returned anything tothe postoffice it was
because its destination could not be
found. He was the slave of his orders.
as punctual as the clock, and so dis
Greet as to discourage the most curious.
Everybody greeted him kindly when he
arrived at village; the children came to
him, and even the dogs barked joyous
vat his approach There was consider
able rivalry as to who should offer MIN
a glass of cider and slice of bacon. But
ne rarely accepted anything. Time
passed and he did not like to contract
troublesome obligations.
Hence the notes made concerning him
were excellent, and his chiefs regretted
that the parsimOnyo of the administration
only permitted them to reward his loyal
services with contemplate gifts.
One day in the middle of October he
departed on his usual round. The
weather was frightful; it had been rain
ing necessarily for more than q week; the
roads had become boys and the brooks
had been transformedinto torrents; what
foliage remained on the trees was so i'm
pregnated with water that it could not
offer a protecting shelter. Thepostman,
wet to the skin, walked with the impas-
sibility of an Old soldier who does not
discuss his orders.
He had distributed a portion of his
mail, but his round was far from being
finished, when he passed an inn, or
rather a miserable drinking house,
situated at the entrance of wood. This
place was mainly patronized by sabot
makers, who found there alcoholic drinks
and few groceries.
clio! Monsieur, the postman, stop
here for an instant; while You are giving
me the information [ need, the violence
of the storm will abate.
This invitation was addressed to him
by man who, with'a pipe in his mouth,
was standing upon the threshold of the
drinking house.
The rain was pouring down at that
moment; a fierce blast swept it into Pere
Martin face, prevented him from walk
ing aud bent to the ground the stalwart
trees.
The postman was a little ahead of
time, and the demands of the service do
not go so far as to forbid the acceptance
of a momentary shelter when 1t offers
itself under such circumstances.
He, therefore, went into the house and
sat down beside the fire which cracked
on the hearth. The man who had in
vited him to enter threw upon it some
dry branches, which were soon in flames:
a heavy vapor arose from Martin
soaked garments.
The stranger Intercepted the postman
as to the hours of the departure Of the
mails, and asked him a host OF questions
about himself, his service, and everything
concerning it.
lyon know me, then ?" said the post
man.
"Parbleui Everybody loves and es-