“I thought I heard him calling a minute ago,” Harlequin replied. “Look, there he comes!” And he pointed down the garden path.
Bulka, when he left the house, had, after some search for a quiet nook, settled down with his armful of letters under the shade of a rhubarb plant. The rhubarb stems were tall; the broad leaves spread out like a tent, and beneath their shelter he felt secure from prying eyes. Spreading the letters out, he read them all through, one by one, and as he read his little heart trembled with emotion. Dear Tubby, what beautiful things she had written here and all for him alone!
He couldn’t sit still any longer; he must jump up and wander about in the sunshine and think of it all. With the precious letters, tied all together by a strong grass-blade, clutched close to his heart, he skipped along, up one border and down the next, paying no particular attention to where he was going and only thinking of his dear Tubby, when, just as he paused to give an extra skip and wriggle—ping!—something fell right on the top of his head!
It was the very letter which Tubby, as you will remember, had posted through the hole in the willow tree branch!
Certainly that letter had lost no time on the way.
Bulka rubbed his head, looked up at the green branches above him, down at the ground, and saw the letter lying there, addressed to him, on the garden path. His first thought was that it had somehow dropped from the packet
