Some years ago there lived in an
English city, a man whom I shall
call Fred Armstrong.
He worked
in the local post office, where
he was called
'dead-letter man'
because he handled
missives
whose addresses were faulty
or hard to read.
He lived in an old
house with his little wife and even
smaller daughter and tiny son.
After supper he liked to sit in his
easy chair and tell his children
of his latest exploits in delivering
lost letters.
He considered
himself quite a detective.
There was no cloud on his modest
horizon.
No cloud
- - until one
sunny morning when his
little boy suddenly
fell ill.
Within 48 hours the child
was dead.
In his sorrow, Fred Armstrong's
soul seemed to die. The mother and
their little daughter, Marian,
struggled to control their grief,
determined to make the best of it.
Not so with the father.
His life
was now a dead letter with no
direction.
In the morning, Fred
rose from his bed and
went to work like a sleep
walker.
He never spoke unless spoken to
and he ate his lunch alone.
He sat like a statue at the supper
table and went to bed early. Yet,
his wife knew that he lay
most of the night with his eyes open,
staring at the ceiling.
As the months passed, his apathy
seemed to deepen.
His wife told
him that such despair was unfair
to their lost son and unfair
to the living.
But nothing that she
said seemed to reach him.
It was coming close upon Christmas.
One bleak afternoon at work Fred
sat on his high stool and moved a
new pile of letters under the electric
lamp.
On the top of the stack was
an envelope that was clearly
undeliverable.
In crude block
letters were penciled the
words:
SANTA CLAUS
NORTH POLE
Fred started to throw it away,
when some impulse made him pause.
He opened the letter and read:
Dear Santa Claus,
We are very
sad in our house this year, and I
don't want
you to bring me anything.
My little brother went to heaven last
spring.
All I want you to do when you
come to our house is to take brother's
toys to him.
I'll leave them in the
corner by the kitchen stove; his
hobby horse and train and everything.
I know he'll be lost up in heaven without
them, most of all his horse.
He always liked riding it so much.
So you must
take them to him, please.
And, you
needn't mind leaving me anything.
But, if you could give Daddy something
that would make him like he used to be,
and make him tell me stories, I do wish
you would. I heard him say to Mommy
once that only eternity could cure him.
Could you bring him some of that and I
will be your good little girl.
Love, Marian
That night Fred walked home at a
faster gait.
In the winter
darkness he stood in the dooryard
garden for just a moment.
Then, he opened the kitchen door.
He hugged his wife and asked his
little daughter if she was ready to
hear a story.
Author
Unknown
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