“Oh, my land!” says Mis’ Holcomb, her voice slipping, “then we’ve got it. We’ve got it all right here!”
But while she was a-saying it, a big, deep voice boomed out all over her and the rest that was exclaiming.
“Ticket to where?” says the private-Santa-Claus-looking man in the fur coat.
“Wooster, this state,” says I, being Mis’ Holcomb was almost speechless.
“Well, now,” says the private Santa Claus, “don’t we go pretty close to Wooster? Where’s that map we wore out? Well, I know we go pretty close to Wooster. Why can’t we take your Master Stubby to Wooster in the car? We’re going on to-night—if we ever get to that general-delivery window,” he ends in a growl.
And that was the time the line made way—the line that never moves for no one. And the Santa Claus man went up and got his mail.
And while he was a-doing it, I run out after Stubby, setting on a barrel in the grocery, happy with three cranberries they’d give him. And as I come back in the door with him, I see Mis’ Holcomb just showing his rose to the young lady with the ermine and the roses. And then I see for sure by the young lady’s eyes that she wasn’t the way I’d thought she was—laughing at us. Why, her eyes were as soft and understanding as if she didn’t have a cent to her name. And I donno but more so.
“Oh, father,” I heard her say, “I’m glad we came in for the mail ourselves! What if we hadn’t?”
And I concluded I didn’t mind that word quaint half as much as I thought I did.
Every last one of the line went out of the post-office to see Stubby off, and the man at the window, he came too. They had a big warm coat they put the little boy into, and we wrapped up his rose and put that in the car, so’s it would get there sooner and save the postage, same time, and they tucked him away as snug as a bug in a rug, his little face just shining out for joy.