letter-board.

These letter-boards always fascinate me. Usually some two or three
of the envelops stuck into the cross-garterings have a certain newness
and freshness. They seem sure they will yet be claimed. Why not? Why
SHOULDN'T John Doe, Esq., or Mrs. Richard Roe turn up at any
moment? I do not know. I can only say that nothing in the world seems
to me more unlikely. Thus it is that these young bright envelops touch
my heart even more than do their dusty and sallowed seniors. Sour
resignation is less touching than impatience for what will not be, than the
eagerness that has to wane and wither. Soured beyond measure these old
envelops are. They are not nearly so nice as they should be to the young
ones. They lose no chance of sneering and discouraging. Such dialogues
as this are only too frequent:

A Very Young Envelop: Something in me whispers that he
will come to-day!

A Very Old Envelop: He? Well, that's good! Ha, ha, ha!
Why didn't he come last week, when YOU came? What reason
have you for supposing he'll ever come now? It isn't as if he were a
frequenter of the place. He's never been here. His name is utterly
unknown here. You don't suppose he's coming on the chance of finding
YOU?

A. V. Y. E.: It may seem silly, but--something in me
whispers--

A. V. O. E.: Something in YOU? One has only to
look at you to see there's nothing in you but a note scribbled to him by a