The post-office was worth $1200 a year, and the discharged post master had abundance of time to count up the profits that might have been made by acting up to the good old rule. "Let every man mind his own business."
THE DEAD LETTER.
The following is contributed by "Dave," of the Columbus (Ohio) post-office.
During my term of service at the General Delivery of this office, it was my custom, upon receiving dead letters from Washington City, to make a list of the names of the persons to whom they were addressed, and stick it up in the lobby of the office, with a notice, "Call for Dead Letters."
One day an elaborate specimen of Erin's sons, whose brawny fist and broad shoulders seemed to denote a construction with an eye single to American rail roads, lounged into the office, and up to the board containing the aforesaid list. He looked at it a moment and burst into tears. I spoke to him through the window, and asked him what was the matter.
"Oh! Mr. Post Master, I see ye have a daid letther for me. I spect me sester in Ireland's daid, and it's not awake since I sint her a tin pound note to come to Ameriky wid—and kin ye tell me how long she's bin daid, Mr. Post Master?'
I asked him his name, found the "letther," and after a request from him to "rade it, sir, and rade it aisy if you plaze," opened it and told him not to cry; that his sister was not dead, but that it was a letter written by himself and directed to Michael Flaherty, Boston, Chicago."
And is Michael daid, Mr. Post Master?"