"Is this letther in time for the extra?" repeated the woman.
"What do you mean by extra," rejoined the official.
"I mane, is the baggage put up?" replied the persevering questioner.
The post master, seeing that the good woman was so thoroughly posted up in all the details of letter-sending, informed her categorically that the letter would go, inasmuch as it was in time for the "extra," and the "baggage" was not "put up."
Hereupon the inquisitive lady, having been fully satisfied in her own mind that the epistle would not fail of the "extra," sailed out of the office a happier, if not a wiser woman.
TO MY GRANDMOTHER.
A little bright eyed, flaxen-haired boy, was one day observed to enter the vestibule of the post-office at Washington, with a letter in his hand, and to wait very modestly for the departure of the crowd collected about the delivery window. As soon as the place was cleared, he approached the letter box and carefully deposited his epistle therein, lingering near as if to watch over the safety of the precious document. His motions attracted the attention of the clerk stationed at the window, whose curiosity induced him to examine the superscription of the letter just deposited by the little fellow. The address on the letter was simply, "To my dear Grandmother, Louisiana;" doubtless some good old lady, whose memory, in the mind of her innocent grandchild, was redolent of cake and candy, and all the various "goodies" which grandmothers are generally so ready to supply, to say nothing of the various well meant offices of kindness, to which their sometimes blind affection prompts them. "Look here, my little man," said the clerk, "what is your grandmother's name, and where does she live?"
"Why, she's my grandma, and she lives in Louisiana."