The Durham daily globe. (Durham, N.C.) 1889-1894, 1894-09-04
THE NEW POSTBOXES.

so drearT before. she was pOStmlSCre>S
and store clerk at the Corners. Day after
day for years She had sorted over the stage
mails, the county papers and the letters.
The day had been a busy one in the store,
and to add TO the confusion Lydia had
recently bought a new set of boxes to take
the place of the dingy little portfolios
which for 25 years had done continuous
service under different postmasters. A
carpenter had worked that afternoon tear
ing away the old case and generally over
hauling the pOstOffice end Of the store.
Lydia was between 40 and 50. Nigh
onto As, bin two year older'n my boy
jerry" old Mrs. Davidge said TO her
friends when Lydia's age was discussed.
But, law, she don't look it, an she don't
act it. Them tow headed girls never look
ez old ez they really be-"
The carpenter stopped hammerlng ana
came to where the pOstmistress was tan
ming herself. He was shutting awkward
" half a dozen letters, yellow with age
| and somewhat rat eaten.
See here, Lyddy, are these any good!
asked he, holding out the letters. -
found 'em down behind the wainscotlng.
l s'pose they're just trash what got
brushed aside, an nc account whatever.
The postmistress of Canaan Corners took
the letters with but little show OF inter
est. People were always running to her
with trines and asking her unnecessary
questions.
Her mind was far away Farmer Kat
cliffe that day, as he mOpped the sweat
from his furrowed face in the postOt1lce,
said to her:
Some folks don't know what hard
work is. Now, I've been wOrkin. Been
plowin that six acre patch back O my
--;.on- 7 1-JIv yrbara Won and NV sister
Ann used to play. 'Tain't been ploWed
afore in 25 years."
The six acre patch, Lydia Spencer had
been thinking that morning, was much
like her heart, in which the love sod had
been unfurrowed for 25 years. Twenty-Five
| years! Yes, it had been just that long since
| she had seen John ButterwOrth-since he
| gave her a lovers look and then, cheerlly
| assuring her that they would soon meet
again, had gone to New York. Their let
tiers had been earnest and full of feeling,
| and finally he wrote asking her if she
would marry him, telling her that he had
| not been successful in business as yet, but
| that if she said Yes he would come back
to Canaan Corners and they would go TO
| Chicago. Bravely had she penned a favor
able answer, and then she waited. All,
the dying of a great hope! How tenacious
| ~ IL Cl1IlSo w ~ AAO" 49,
awaited tidings from John Butterworth!
But none came. The summer came and
went. twenty-five years ago, and she
had been thinking Of job Butterworth
hat day.
"Looks ez if rats had chawed 'em some,
don't it?' asked the carpenter as lydia
stepped closer to the window to inspect the
musty letters.
The very first one of the lot gave her
senses a shock, John Butterworth, Bulls
Head Hotel, Bowery, n. Y. City"
The red sun turned black. The Canaan
Corners postoftice began spinning around
and bobbing up and down. A hurricane
seemed to catch her and dash her head
against a distant cliff.
"There, there, Miss Lyddy,' said the
big carpenter, tanning her with his straw
hat. The heats been too much fur ye,
/ guess"
Trembling like a child, she once more
looked at the letter-her own letter of &C
ceptance-plighting her trOth for better
or for worse, through evil and good report.
1t seemed to her as if her heart would
burst in agony. She knew now why John
ButterwOrth had never come back. She
had appeared to him as unwilling to share
his fortunes. Lydia Spencer was a firm
woman. In justice to herself she deter
mined to make an effort to reach John
ButterwOrth with the belated letter. It
had no pOstmark. Taking the marker, she
removed the figures ''94' and substituted
go"
Then, writing a note to the proprietor OF
the Bulls Head hotel, New York city, She
told him to forward the letter to Chicago.
Nervously she let it fall into the gaping
mouth of the mailbag. The stage took it
on its Way that night.
Two weeks later a gray haired man
one of C~hicago's leading capitalists-was
one morning opening his mail. He came
to a yellOwed envelope which had been for
warded from New York, 1t bore several
rubber stamp marks, and a Chicago post
office clerk had written on it:
Try 361 Dearborn street"
"Send Jack in, said John Butterworth
to his head clerk.
Jack, my boy" said the father in a
low voice and n%ervously, read this old