The Pulaski citizen. [volume] (Pulaski, Tenn.) 1866-current, 1885-05-14
COUNTRY PoST-oFFICES.
The Kind Of a Picnic Country Post
masters and Their Clerks
Enjoy.

Enjoy.
The uninitiated seem to think
that we clerks in country post-ef-
fees have regular picnics just about
all the time, and though you may
be somewhat surprised at the frank
ness Of the confession, 1 am COM
PEELED to admit that in a certain
sense we have.
The mail has come and 1 am aw-
fully busy. In comes Claude Jones
and planting himself in such a po-
sition that no one else can get near
the delivery window, he begins his
cantata by asking;
rs there any mail for Ira JoResP
mo"
us there any mail for wilbert
Jones?''
''No. If there had been 1 should
have given it to YOU"
''Is there any mail for John
Jones?"
mo. There is no mail for any
of the Joneses."
''Is there any mail for Lon
Jones?'
mo. There isn't, there hasn't
been, and what's more, there isn't
likely to be- He looked at me
with a blank sort of suspicious
stare and then gives sthe crank an
other turn with:
"Is there a registered letter for
Stella JOnesY
seize him by the hair. There
is an unearthly yell, aud an indis
criminate 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 a man.
He is an older person than Claude
and must be treated with more con-
sideration, He rubs his hands,
squirts a handful of tobacco juice
on the stove, and leads off. 1 know
what he is coming for. L have
gone through the very same Sc
ries of questions and answers with
him two or three times a week
ever since l came into the post
office.
There hain't no mail for me?"
quite confdentially.
mo, sir"
"What! no letter."
"No, sir"
"Well, now, that's strange. l or
ter "a got letter from my woman's
father. He writes regular every two
weeks, an we hain't heard from
him for nigh onto a month. How
dye account for itY'
perhaps the old man is SICK"
ventured
"Sick! Huh! Unka! Never sick a
day in his life. No, sir; it's some
fault of the post office
"Well, L am sorry, but there is no
letter here for you.n
"Hain't there no postal card?"
mo, sir"
"Well, 1 was lookin' for postal
card from seed house in Philadel-
ply. L wrote 'em letter three
weeks ago and l think its about
time 1 heard something from it."
1 know there is just so much of
it, so l let him go right on. He
bitches up his trousers, and looking
me full in the eye, touches off the
fusilade as follows:
Did there any box come for meY"
mo, sir"
"Well, it might be little pack
age. l didn't know just what shape
it would come in. MY woman's un-
Gle down in the southern part of the
state was going to send her some
slips of house plants, 1 was think
ing that like enough they might be
along this week
is there any registered mail?'
''No, sir"
well, 1 didn't expect any yet,
but old Pete Simons, down IN Cos
hen, has been talkin' of sendin' me
the money to pay the taxes on the
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"
well, L guess I'd better be get
tin along, for it will be ALFRED
close to grub time fore 1 get home,
an the old woman is a powerful
prompt hand about meals.
Perhaps you think that the ago
ny is over, but don't. In comes
Bert Davis. He says.
us there any mail for me?"
"No."
"WelI, them" he says, "is there
any female?'
Then he laughs and haw-haws,
and chuckles, and doubles himself
all up with merriment. He thinks
he has propounded the funniest
Joke of the season. This makes the
three hundred and sixty fifth time
he has done the same thing in the
last year, and always with the same
side show of nonsensical performan
ces. am beginning to get sick Of
this sort ofthing, so l stare at him
very hard, and say in chilling,
north latitude tone of voice;
did you say anything to me,
STRIP
This seems to para.yze him.
Heretofore I have always met his
mirthful sallies with uproarous
laughter, and he cannot understand
this sudden change. But 1 keep
right on looking at him and he
keeps growing 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 die.-Jim Nash.
Advice to Railroad Travellers.