Pippin the Little Postbox

Pippin lived in a corner of the Market Street Post Office, where the floor smelled of paper dust and warm envelopes. He was small and round and painted a red that had faded a little from many mornings of sunshine through the big windows. A long nick ran over his lid from a time when a parcel had bumped him in a hurry. He had one little slot for letters and a tiny brass number that the postmaster polished every Tuesday. Most days Pippin watched feet hurry by: postmen with heavy bags, the sorting crates that clattered like busy beetles, and Mara the mailbird who hopped about the counter and sang when she was happy.

Pippin liked to think on slow afternoons that he was doing something important. He swallowed small pieces of paper and kept them safe. He listened to the rustle of stamps like a lullaby. But when the big parcels came, when the thick envelopes were stacked and the sorting crates needed the strongest helpers, Pippin felt very small indeed. Big Sorter, the tall wooden crate with a lid that opened like a doorway, could hold so many letters that its bottom sagged with the weight. Tick, the old tin delivery cart, rolled out with a creak and a metal laugh and everyone watched him go, while Pippin stayed low in the corner where the sun only touched him at noon.

On a bright market morning, Emma, a small girl with freckled cheeks and a yellow scarf, came to the post office with a letter that had been folded and colored with tiny drawings of daisies and a heart. She had written to her Grandma June, who lived at the end of Willow Lane and liked to collect teacups with blue stripes. Emma had written about a lost button and a new story she wanted to tell and she had asked Grandma June to come for a visit soon. The letter was special because Emma had pressed a small leaf inside and drawn a silly sun on the envelope so Grandma June would know it was from her.