Famous American men of letters are to appear in a new series of U.S.A. postage stamps, and already the languid unkempt Fine Souls of England's literary fringes are screaming for our own author's faces on British stamps, says a Home paper.
Sir Hugh Walpole's natural colouring; it is felt, would be preserved on the penny stamps, and the peacock hue of the tenpenny is already being canvassed in connection with Mr. Priesiley's dogged profile. Not that he would ever feel stuck, An image we are not likely to see is that 04 Sunday's Ray of Gushing Youth, Mr. Azalea Winkle Public Emetic No. 1. I have simply refused to let my name go forward," he said with wistful obstinacy, "The idea of horrid men disfiguring my portrait with clumsy postmarks would make me shriek out in the night even more often than I do now. You do see that, don't you? Bless you, I knew you would." wet Letter From An Aunt My Dear Boy (Mr. Nat Gubbins)
The town is full of evacuees, as they call them, and of course we would have the rudest and grubbiest children—as Emily has always said she wanted to adopt a child I told her she could have both, but when she tried to bath one of them he punched her in the stomach and she went to bed: crying with pain—she also has her first autumn cold, which lasts all the winter—she tried on her gas mask for the first time yesterday, but sneezed and blew it off—of course she's got the wrong size—her mask would fit an elephant, so I told her if there is a gas attack she is almost certain to be the first victim.
Poor darling Porgy hates the children as much as we do—he barks and growls every time they come into the house, but as they only bark and growl back at him he goes under the settee and whimpers—the children are always complaining about our food—they won't eat good wholesome suet puddings to fill them up—they say they have steak and chips every day at home, which, of course, is a wicked lie—at tea they were so furious at poor darling Porgy having bread and butter while they had bread and margarine that they threw their food at Emily—they seem to hate Emily more than any of us, and call her Aunt Sourpuss, though I can't think why.
Florrie came round and told us that the reason why there have been no air raids up to the present was that the Germans are building bombers exactly like our own, with the same markings, so that they can give us a surprise—since then Emily has run to the air raid shelter with her gas mask every time she hears the noise of an engine, even a motorcycle—the gardener, who was in the last war, tried to comfort Emily by telling her shell be all right after the first raid, when she's been "blooded"—but this only set her off again, and she spent the next day in bed sniffing and snivelling.
Your uncle Fred, who is staying at the hotel because he doesn't like children, is worried because Drake's drum hasn't been heard—he says it always throbs somewhere in Devonshire when England goes to war—he thinks Drake may have stopped it this time in case it is mistaken for an air raid warning.
Your Aunt Ma.
Text read from the printed page and cleaned; old type leaves the occasional error.