Every one knows what a small country Post-office is nowadays. When we seek change of air and relaxation in the holiday season, choice is made maybe of some little country village or seaside resort whereat to spend the few weeks at our disposal. If the place be a _place_ at all, there we shall find a Post-office; but possibly there is no house-to-house delivery, and letters must be called for at the Post-office itself. As the post-hour approaches, groups of visitors take up positions near the office door, or squat themselves down on any patch of sward that may be conveniently near. Young ladies waited upon by their admirers, mothers with their children, a bachelor group or two from the inn, and here and there a native of the place, some expecting letters, others indulging a feeble hope in that direction, attend as assistants at what is one of the excitements of the day. Presently the post-runner, with his wallet slung upon his back and a rustic walking-stick in his hand, appears in the distance, jogging along with that steady swinging stride which is so characteristic of his class. The visitors begin to close up around the Post-office; in a few minutes the runner steps into it; he throws down his wallet of treasures on the counter, removes his faded and dusty hat, and with his coloured cotton handkerchief wipes the sweat from his soiled and heated face. Meanwhile the attention of the postmistress is given to the contents of the bag; and as the expectant receivers of letters crowd in at or around the door, a few who have been unable to approach sufficiently near derive what consolation they can from eyeing the operations through the shop window, or by vainly endeavouring to catch an early glimpse of some well-known superscription as the letters pass one by one through the hands of the postmistress.