Uncle Ike left the group in front of the cabin, and, hurriedly entering the office, seated himself upon his throne.  A tall, thin, slow moving mule, brought to before a certain tree with the grace and dignity of an ocean liner coming into her slip.  Zeke Wheeler dismounted, and, with the saddle mail pouch over his arm, stalked solemnly across the yard and into the house, his spurs clinking on the gravel and rattling over the floor.  Following the mail carrier, the group of mountaineers entered, and, with Uncle Ike’s entire family, took their places at a respectful distance from the holy place of mystery and might, in the north east corner of the room.

The postmaster, with a key attached by a small chain to one corner of the table, unlocked the flat pouch and drew forth the contents--five papers, three letters and one postal card.

The empty pouch was kicked contemptuously beneath the table.  The papers were tossed to one side.  All eyes were fixed on the little bundle of first class matter.  In a breathless silence the official cut the string.  The silence was broken.  “Ba thundas!  Mary Liz Jolly’ll sure be glad t’ git that there letter.  Her man’s been gone nigh onto three months now, an’ ain’t wrote but once.  That was when he was in Mayville.  I see he’s down in th’ nation now at Auburn, sendin’ Mary Liz some money, I reckon.  Ba thundas, it’s ’bout time!  What!”

“James Creelman, E-S-Q., Wal, dad burn me.  Jim done wrote t’ that there house in Chicago more’n three weeks ago, ’bout a watch they’re a sellin’ fer fo’ dollars.  Ba thundas!  They’d sure answer me quicker’n that, er they’d hear turkey.  What!  I done tole Jim it was only a blamed ol’ fo’ dollar house anyhow.”

At this many nods and glances were exchanged by the group in silent admiration of the “gov’ment,” and one mountaineer, bold even to recklessness, remarked, “Jim must have a heap o’ money t’ be a buyin’ four dollar watches.  Must er sold that gray mule o’ hisn; hit’d fetch ’bout that much, I reckon.”

“Much you know ’bout it, Buck Boswell.  Let me tell you, Jim he works, he does.  He’s the workingest man in this here county, ba thundas!  What!  Jim he don’t sit ’round like you fellers down on th’ creek an’ wait fer pawpaws to git ripe, so he can git a square meal, ba thundas!” The bold mountaineer wilted.

Uncle Ike proceeded with the business of his office.  “Here’s Sallie Rhodes done writ her maw a card from th’ Corners.  Sallie’s been a visitin’ her paw’s folks.  Says she’ll be home on th’ hack next mail, an’ wants her maw t’ meet her here.  You can take th’ hack next time, Zeke.  An’ ba thundas!  Here’s ’nother letter from that dummed Ollie Stewart.  Sammy ain’t been over yet after th’ last one he wrote.  Ba thundas!  If it weren’t for them blamed gov’- ment inspectors, I’d sure put a spoke in his wheel.  What!  I’d everlastin’ly seva’ th’ connections between that gentleman an’ these here Ozarks.