R. F. D. 189 



for more than four or at most five months in the year. 

 He not only delivers along the route, but he carries the 

 mail to the little post office far from the railroad at the 

 end of his journey. That is in a leather sack or two at 

 his feet. The route mail is on the seat beside him, along 

 with a pile of private parcels, purchases he has been com- 

 missioned to make by those whom we had almost called 

 his patients. His is an ordinary-looking buggy, and a 

 somewhat less than ordinary-looking horse. He wears 

 no uniform. Yet he and his outfit are mysteriously 

 invested with the dignity of Uncle Sam. He is carrying 

 the United States Mail, and though we call him Tom 

 and have known him familiarly since boyhood, we would 

 not dream of interfering with his journey. Somehow, 

 for us, he represents the cooperative ideal made mani- 

 fest. He is our servant and our fellow townsman. 

 To interfere with him would be to interfere with every 

 citizen of the village, of the nation. It is easier to 

 visualize democracy in the form of Tom Sherburn than 

 that of a mail tube to the Grand Central Station! 



Tom's buggy jogs down the village street and in 

 under the shadow of the old covered bridge, where the 

 cross planking rattles loudly and there is a curious smell 

 known to every one familiar with old covered bridges, 

 and quite indescribable to anybody else. Inside the 

 bridge are tin posters advertising liniment for man and 

 beast, and up in the cobwebs hang wisps of hay caught 

 from some passing load. Through the little square 



