School children, happy at the close of an irksome day of school, shouted boisterously at each other in the street.

Laboring men, with empty dinner pails in hand, sat restfully on the curbstone just outside the post office door, and talked of the happenings of the day.

The village blacksmith wiped the honest sweat from his brow, closed the shop door, and came down to the post office, where he was met by his flaxen-haired girl of three summers.

She clasped her pink arms about the smith's grimy neck and told him Mama was looking for a letter from Grandma, who had gone to California for her health, and that she had come down to see how many kisses Grandma had sent her.

The town doctor, with a dignified air, leaned against the side of the post office door and read the Chicago paper that a previous mail had brought to him.