“Belfast, sir.” Belfast was the post-mark.
“What is his name?”
“Patrick McLaughlan.”
“Open that letter,” handing her the one in question. She did so, and, casting her eyes on the signature, exclaimed, “From my son! from my boy!” Sure enough, there was the name,—Patrick McLaughlan.
The clerk gave her some instructions for future correspondence which probably proved of advantage to her.
Somebody sent a newspaper through the mails the other day directed as follows: “To Honest Father Abraham, God bless him, Washington, D. C.”
The following is a literal copy of the superscription of a registered letter received from Ireland, written, strange as it may seem, in a “clerkly hand”:
To this letter I pray attend
To A lady Late of Ireland