Iron County register. [volume] (Ironton, Iron County, Mo.) 1867-1965, 1885-04-09
COUNTRY POST .OFFICES,
The Kind of Picnic Country Postmasters
and Their Clerks Enjoy.

COUNTRY POST -OFFICES.
The Kind of q Picnic Country Postmasters
and Their Clerks Enjoy.
The uninitiated seem to think that
we clerks in country Post-offices have
regular picnics just about all the time,
and, though you may be somewhat sur
prised at the frankness of the con-
fession, am compelled to admit that
in certain sense we have.
The mail has come, and am awfully
! busy. In comes Claude Jones, and
planting himself in such position
that no one else can get near the de-
livery window, he begins his cantata by
asking:
rs there any mail for Ira Jones?"
NO"
us there any mail for .Wilberf
Jones?''
mo. If there had been I should
have given it to you"
SIS there any mail for John Jones?"
mo. There is no mail for any of the
Joneses."
us there any mail for Lon JonesP"
'No. There isn't. there hasn' been,
and what's more, there isn't likely to
be-" He looks at me with blank sort
of suspicious stare and then gives the
crank another turn with:
is there registered letterfor Stella
Jones?'
l seize him by the hair. There is
an unearthly yell, and an indiscrim-
mate mass of boys legs. ears and
groans is piled up in the .snow-drift in
front of the store door.
Just now there steps up man. He
is an older person than Claude and
must be treated with more considera-
ton. He rubs his hands. squirts. a
handful of tobacco juice on the stove,
and leads Off know what he is COM
ing for. l have gone through the
same series of questions an answers
with him two or three times week
ever since / came into the Post-office.
There hain't no mail for me?' quite
confidentially.
mo, SIR
s'What! no letter."
mo. sir
"Well. now. that's strange. I ortel
"a got a letter from my woman's faith
er. He writes reg lar every two weeks,
an we hain't heard from him for nigh
onto a month. How dye account for
it?''
'.Prhaps the old man is SICK" I ven
tilre.
sick. Huh. Unka. Never sick day
in his life. No. sir; it's some fault Of
the Post-office."
'Well. 1 am sorry. but there is no
letter here for YOU
"Hain't there no postal card?'
"No. SIR
"Well, I was lookin' for a postal
card from a seed house in Phladel-
ply. | wrote 'em letter three weeks
ago and [ think it's about time
heard something from it,
/ | know there is Just so much of it, so
let him go right on. He bitches up
his trousers, and. looking me full in
the eve, touches off the fusilade as fol-
lows:
did there any box come for me?"
mo. sir''
"Well, it might be little package.
didn't know just what shape it would
come in. My woman's uncle down in
the south part of the State was gOin'
to send her some slips of house plants,
and was thinking that like enough
they might be along this week"
'sNo. sir, there is nothing at ALL"
'4s there any registered mail?'
''No, SIR
''Well. | didn't expect any yet, but
Old Pete Simons. down in Goshen, has
been talkin' of sendin' me the money to
pay the taxes on that old back forty on
section seven. and l wanted to make
sure so that it wouldn't be returned to
the County Treasurer with the money
here to pay it. You're sure there amt
no letter."
Eyes. sir.
..WeIl, guess I'd better be gettin'
along, for it will be alfred close to
grub time fore get home, N the old
woman is powerful prompt hand
about meals"
Perhaps you think that the agony is
over, but don't. In comes Bert Davis
He SAYS:
rs there any mail for me?'
well. them" he says, lis there any
female?"
Then he laughs, and haw-haws. and
chuckles, and doubles himself all up
with merriment He thinks he has pro-
pounded the funniest joke of the sea-
son. This makes the three hundred
and sixty-tifth time he has done the
same thing in the last year. and always
with the same side show of nonsensical
performances. am beginning to get
sick of this sort of thing. so | stare at
him very hard. and say in chilling.
north latitude tone of voice:
did you say anything to me, sir?''
This seems to paralyze him. Here
tOfore L have always met his mirthful
sallies with uproarious laughter, and
he can not understand this sudden
change. But L keep right on looking
at him and he keeps growing smaller
and smaller and smaller, and slowly
edges away toward the door. Ny gaze
is fixed steadily upon him, and by the
time he gets out on the sidewalk he
isn't bigger than a pint of yeast. He
has gone away to e.-Jim Nash, in
Detroit Free Press.