o to Antwerp! Don't seem to care for rest,
these people: flying here, flying there, what's the sense of it?" It is
this absurd craze on the part of the public for letter-writing that is
spoiling the temper of the continental post-office official. He does his
best to discourage it.

"Look at them," he says to his assistant--the thoughtful German
Government is careful to provide every official with another official for
company, lest by sheer force of _ennui_ he might be reduced to taking
interest in his work--"twenty of 'em, all in a row! Some of 'em been
there for the last quarter of an hour."

"Let 'em wait another quarter of an hour," advises the assistant;
"perhaps they'll go away."

"My dear fellow," he answers, "do you think I haven't tried that? There's
simply no getting rid of 'em. And it's always the same cry: 'Stamps!
stamps! stamps!' 'Pon my word, I think they live on stamps, some of
'em."

"Well let 'em have their stamps?" suggests the assistant, with a burst of
inspiration; "perhaps it will get rid of 'em."

Why the Man in Uniform has, generally, sad Eyes.

"What's the use?" wearily replies the older man. "There will only come a
fresh crowd when those are gone."

"Oh, well," argues the other, "that will be a change, anyhow. I'm tired
of looking at this lot."

I put it to a German post-office clerk once--a man I had been boring for
months. I said:

"You think I write these letters--these short stories, these three-act
plays--on purpose to annoy you. Do let me try to get the idea out of
your head. Personally, I hate work--hate it as much as you do. This is
a pleasant little town of yours: given a free choice, I could spend the
whole day mooning round it, never putting pen to paper. But what am I to
do? I have a wife and children. You know what it is yourself: they
clamour for food, boots--all sorts of things. I have to prepare these
little packets for sale and bring them to you to send off. You see, you
are here. If you were not here--if there were no post-office in this
town, maybe I'd have to train pigeons, or cork the thing up in a bottle,
fling it into the river, and trust to luck and the Gulf Stream. But, you
being here, and calling yourself a post-office--well, it's a temptation
to a fellow."

I think it did good. Anyhow, after that he used to grin when I opened
the door, instead of greeting me as formerly with a face the picture of
despair. But to return to our in