And then the whole thing went on in the most startling way. Every letter had something to say. Talk! Letters talk? To be sure. When you read a letter, does it not tell you something? Anybody can understand everything they say the moment you look them in the face. When the office-boy heard all the letters talking at once, he puckered up his mouth, and tried to whistle, but his lips only made up a round O of surprise. He didn't say a word, but tried to remember what the letters said.
"I came from Chicago, and I want to find a boy or girl who will trade postage stamps for minerals."
"I've got a new wiggle. I'd show it to you if I could only unfold myself. I'm too stiff. It's awful cold up here, isn't it?"
"Cold? It's nothing to Chicago. I nearly froze to death in the postal car. It's as much as I could do to keep my ink from freezing, and as for the mucilage on the envelope, it was quite stiff, and full of little crackles. I did think it would be warmer in New York."
"It was so warm in Oclahama, Mississippi, when I left, that the ink wouldn't dry."
"I'm nine years old, and I came all the way from Des Moines."
"You ought to be pretty yellow by this time."
"It isn't me. It's my writer. She's a girl, and she says she didn't like the 'Moral Pirates.'"
At this every one of the letters gave a thin groan, and the office-boy sat right up and said, "My!"
The letters didn't seem to mind this singular remark, for they all began to talk at once.