stare hard at the sky.
Mr. Pring looked from the sky to the Mockery cliff, beyond which lay the villages of Dodder, Madder, Norbury, and all the rest of the world.
‘Thik picture,’ remarked Mr. Pring, looking from the Mockery cliff and at his wife, ‘that did step out of ’is frame to kiss Miss Pink at party, do know of a letter.’
Mrs. Pring looked at her husband with pride; he was famed as a messenger. This fame had arisen in a very simple manner, because Mr. Pring had always taken the trouble to inform the good folk of Mockery,whenever he met any of them, that he had never lost a letter.
In the ever-green valley of Mockery Gap only the stranger oddities of men and women outlive their lives. Riches pass there and are gone; goodness and charity, poverty—too common, perhaps, to be mentioned—go too; but a man who has once been credited with eating a dozen eggs for his dinner lives for ever. And so with Mr. Pring; for he with his fame—though only one person, and she a lady, had ever entrusted him with a letter—will most likely be handed down as the faithful deliverer of all the private and unposted correspondence through all time.
The letter from which Mr. Pring’s fame had arisen—for from its presence in his trousers pocket he had acclaimed himself to the world as ‘the one to carry a message’—the letter (and the time has come for us to discover it) had been handed to Mr. Pring by Miss Pink, then a girl, one autumn day when the mist hung low in the lane that led to the sea. Fifteen years have gone by since love had set Miss Pink’s heart a-dancing, a heart that must have been as large as her nose was small. Mr. Pink had only just been set up at his desk, with Mr. Roddy’s affairs all about him to attend to, and he had visited the shop but a few times, and Mrs. Moggs had hardly rung her bells to him, nor given him the exciting hopesfor her eternal salvation, when the letter was written.
It was February and leap year, and the last day of the month too, and Miss Pink had gone out, because the sun was pleasantly warm, to walk in the fields. Miss Pink had been looking for water-cress, a weed that her brother was extremely fond of; and after taking out of the ditch as much as she chose, she chanced to look up and saw Mr. Gulliver, who had been a widower for a year, playing with the rabbits. Mr. Gulliver wasn’t alone, for his daughter Mary was with him, and she was stroking a tiny rabbit that appeared to have entirely lost its natural timidity.
Near by upon the grass there were snares that were never set, a gun that was never fired, and nets that were never used.
Mr. Gulliver, being a rather oddly-made portion of Mockery clay, had discovered that rabbits were fine things for Mary to play with, though rather dull to eat.
And from that day Miss Pink loved Mr. Gulliver.
That same evening Mr. Pink said to his sister, ‘I cannot find, dear, any mention in my accounts of Mr. Gulliver’s rent-day.’
‘Perhaps it’s the 29th of February—that may be his day for payment,’ replied Miss Pink.
‘Oh, very likely,’ said Mr. Pink.
Miss Pink wrote her letter.
Dear Mr. Gulliver,—I hope you aren’t troubled about my picking your water-cress in the meadow. I have never seen any rabbits eating it, and they might drown themselves if they tried to.
I have never thought of any one before, but I love you because you let Mary play with the rabbits. I have noticed in church that there is a tear in the back of the child’s little coat; if you will let me marry you I will mend it.—I remain, yours devotedly,
Martha Pink.
Being such a timid person, one can easily imagine that Miss Pink hardly felt brave enough to deliver this letter with her own hands, and so she gave it to Mr. Pring, who promised to deliver it that very afternoon.
But Mr. Pring had only taken the letter out of his pocket some half-dozen times in half an hour when he began to feel that fame was come upon him.
‘Postman do think
Mr. Pring looked from the sky to the Mockery cliff, beyond which lay the villages of Dodder, Madder, Norbury, and all the rest of the world.
‘Thik picture,’ remarked Mr. Pring, looking from the Mockery cliff and at his wife, ‘that did step out of ’is frame to kiss Miss Pink at party, do know of a letter.’
Mrs. Pring looked at her husband with pride; he was famed as a messenger. This fame had arisen in a very simple manner, because Mr. Pring had always taken the trouble to inform the good folk of Mockery,whenever he met any of them, that he had never lost a letter.
In the ever-green valley of Mockery Gap only the stranger oddities of men and women outlive their lives. Riches pass there and are gone; goodness and charity, poverty—too common, perhaps, to be mentioned—go too; but a man who has once been credited with eating a dozen eggs for his dinner lives for ever. And so with Mr. Pring; for he with his fame—though only one person, and she a lady, had ever entrusted him with a letter—will most likely be handed down as the faithful deliverer of all the private and unposted correspondence through all time.
The letter from which Mr. Pring’s fame had arisen—for from its presence in his trousers pocket he had acclaimed himself to the world as ‘the one to carry a message’—the letter (and the time has come for us to discover it) had been handed to Mr. Pring by Miss Pink, then a girl, one autumn day when the mist hung low in the lane that led to the sea. Fifteen years have gone by since love had set Miss Pink’s heart a-dancing, a heart that must have been as large as her nose was small. Mr. Pink had only just been set up at his desk, with Mr. Roddy’s affairs all about him to attend to, and he had visited the shop but a few times, and Mrs. Moggs had hardly rung her bells to him, nor given him the exciting hopesfor her eternal salvation, when the letter was written.
It was February and leap year, and the last day of the month too, and Miss Pink had gone out, because the sun was pleasantly warm, to walk in the fields. Miss Pink had been looking for water-cress, a weed that her brother was extremely fond of; and after taking out of the ditch as much as she chose, she chanced to look up and saw Mr. Gulliver, who had been a widower for a year, playing with the rabbits. Mr. Gulliver wasn’t alone, for his daughter Mary was with him, and she was stroking a tiny rabbit that appeared to have entirely lost its natural timidity.
Near by upon the grass there were snares that were never set, a gun that was never fired, and nets that were never used.
Mr. Gulliver, being a rather oddly-made portion of Mockery clay, had discovered that rabbits were fine things for Mary to play with, though rather dull to eat.
And from that day Miss Pink loved Mr. Gulliver.
That same evening Mr. Pink said to his sister, ‘I cannot find, dear, any mention in my accounts of Mr. Gulliver’s rent-day.’
‘Perhaps it’s the 29th of February—that may be his day for payment,’ replied Miss Pink.
‘Oh, very likely,’ said Mr. Pink.
Miss Pink wrote her letter.
Dear Mr. Gulliver,—I hope you aren’t troubled about my picking your water-cress in the meadow. I have never seen any rabbits eating it, and they might drown themselves if they tried to.
I have never thought of any one before, but I love you because you let Mary play with the rabbits. I have noticed in church that there is a tear in the back of the child’s little coat; if you will let me marry you I will mend it.—I remain, yours devotedly,
Martha Pink.
Being such a timid person, one can easily imagine that Miss Pink hardly felt brave enough to deliver this letter with her own hands, and so she gave it to Mr. Pring, who promised to deliver it that very afternoon.
But Mr. Pring had only taken the letter out of his pocket some half-dozen times in half an hour when he began to feel that fame was come upon him.
‘Postman do think
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