Having mailed a letter, she stood looking over the low railing into the rear of the postoffice when her eye was caught by a pile of second-class mail. It was in sacks, but the half-open sacks presented a strange picture. Out of one a beautiful doll appeared to be struggling. From a second a toy train, apparently at full speed, had been arrested in midtrack, while from another cautiously peeped a woolly teddybear.
Leaning forward, Mary read the address on one sack. “Wales, Alaska. Where is that?”
“Cape Prince of Wales, on Bering Straits above Nome,” said the postmaster.
“Way up there!” Mary was surprised. “Christmas presents. Will they get there in time?”
“In time for the 4th of July,” was the reply. “Some teacher up there asked friends to contribute to his tree for Eskimo children. These sacks arrived too late for the last boat. Cost a small fortune to send them by air mail, so here they stay.”
“Oh, that—” Mary exclaimed, “that’s too bad. Think what all those presents would mean to the cute little Eskimo children!”
“Oh, sure, but that’s what you get in the North.” The postmaster dismissed the matter at that. But for Mary, forgetting the appealing doll, the rushing train that did not rush, and the peeping bear, was not so easy.
“If only Florence had known they were here!” she thought as she turned away. “Perhaps they had not yet arrived. Anyway—”
Anyway what? She did not exactly know. She wished that she might own an airplane all her own and go where she chose in this great white world of the North. This, she knew, was only a mad dream, so taking the train for home, she settled down to the business of feeding chickens, gathering eggs, and assisting in the preparation of delicious meals.
And then one bright, clear day something very strange happened. In a cutter drawn by two prancing horses, Mr. Il-ay-ok, the Eskimo, appeared at their door.