There used to be a Postmaster in the Old Town who had a very quick and violent temper. The post-chaise was upset once when he was the only passenger, and in such a way that he was imprisoned within it and unable to open the door. He called in vain for help; the driver did not come. At that his gorge rose, and he shrieked angrily: “Niels! Niels! Where are you? Come at once.” “I cannot, Mr. Postmaster,” Niels’ voice spoke patiently from the ditch. “I am lying here with a broken leg.” “Hang your leg,” yelled the angry man, from the chaise; “come at once, I tell you. I am lying here with a broken neck.” I was thinking less of the unreasonable Postmaster than of the just anger of the district physician, who one day was called to deal with an emergency in a near-by farm-house, where all depended on letting in fresh air quickly. The patient lay in one of the horrible closet beds that always gave me a shiver, though they were often not so bad, if only there were not mice in the straw. Air there never was, could not be. The doctor ran to the window and tried to open it. It was nailed down; probably had not been opened since the house was built. Dr. P. was a hasty man, too, and here he had reason, for no time was to be lost. Looking around for something to smash the window with, his eye fell upon the farmer’s silver-mounted meerschaum pipe, with a bowl as big as a man’s fist and long elastic stem. The doctor seized it and, wielding it as a war club, smashed pane after pane and saved his patient. But the farmer sued him. The pipe was an heirloom and beyond price to him. It was the one thing that by the country folk was valued higher than lands and cattle. The doctor lost his case, but he took the occasion to inveigh effectually against the evil abuse of the cupboard beds that were closed tight with doors as often as with a curtain. When this last was so, it was rather to save the wood than the sleeper. And he lived to see them put under the ban, and to see windows made to open.