An old Southern darky was sent for the first time to the post-office to mail four letters, and was told to buy stamps for them.
"Boss," he said, looking in through the stamp window, "how much do it tek ter sen' fo' letters for Massa Johnson?"
"Eight cents," replied the clerk, from within the window.
"Dat so?" interjected the negro.
"Yes, uncle."
The old darky took out a leather bag and worried from it eight coppers. Laying these on the counter, he said:
"Well, yo' c'n let 'em go 'long."
"But where are the letters?" asked the clerk.
"Whar is day? Why, I done drapt 'em in de hole 'roun' yonder."
DOUBTS