And there, indeed, she found it. A fine coat of dust had collected over its surface, but when she had brushed it off with her apron, she found it quite as fresh as ever.
And now, how was it to be wrapped so that it could withstand the rough treatment of a long journey? She glanced at the clock. It was not yet noon-day.
Holding it face inwards under her arm, she started forth to look for counsel in this important matter. Mr. Wheelock, at the post-office, was one of her particular friends; he would be able to tell her exactly what was to be done.
She found that gentleman sitting on the steps of the post-office, smoking a calabash pipe, and sunning himself placidly while he waited for the noon mail.
“What have you got there?” he called out.
“I want you to tell me something, Mr. Wheelock.”
“How many calves’ tails it takes to reach the moon?” said the old man, facetiously. “No? What is it to-day, then?”
He knocked his pipe out on the step, rose, and followed her as she skipped back to his little office.
Mr. Wheelock took a pair of steel-rimmed spectacles out of the pocket of his grey alpaca coat, and put them on. Then he picked up the barrel top and looked at it in an astonishment that gave way presently to something like profound admiration.
“Well, I declare! If it ain’t Mrs. Lambert! And its a mighty fine thing, too. How did you come by this?”
“_Do_ you think it’s good, Mr. Wheelock?” cried Jane, eagerly, her face glowing.
“It’s fine,” said Mr. Wheelock, in a tone that indicated that he considered his opinion quite final. “And on the top of an old flour barrel, too!” he went on, turning the picture over. “Ain’t that quaint? Well, now, where did you want it sent?”
Jane sat down and copied out the address for him.
“And you’ll wrap it up _carefully_, Mr. Wheelock?”
“Sure thing. And send it by express, too.”
“Nary a breath. Here, hadn’t you better write your address on the back of this here pitcher—or somewheres, case it might get lost.”
Jane had nearly forgotten this item. She took a post card, and wrote on it boldly, “Paul Winkler, Frederickstown, N. C.”
“There, Mr. Wheelock, will you paste that on the back?”
“Paul Winkler! That young feller I seen around here a lot with you folks? Did he make this pitcher?”