The Log and the Blue Letter

The village of Little Wick sat at the bottom of a hill, and every morning its chimneys woke up one by one.

Isla woke up too. She was the post girl, and she had a big leather satchel and a bicycle with a bell. Today there were nine letters. Eight were easy. The last one was blue, and it was for Mr Fennel.

"I must give it to him in his own hand," said Isla. "Before the church bell rings nine."

She pedalled up the lane and dropped eight letters into eight letterboxes. Flip, flap, flop.

Then she stopped at Mr Fennel's green door. Knock, knock. Nobody home.

She tried the window. "Mr Fennel!" Nobody came.

She tried the back gate. It was locked, and a very cross hen sat on top of it, glaring.

"I'm not in your way," said Isla. "I'm just the post."

The hen said, "Bok," and did not move. She had her own business, and it was not about letters.

Isla sat down on the old hollow log by the stile and thought. Then the log spoke.

"Good morning!" it said, in Isla's own voice. "I have a letter!"

Isla jumped. But nobody in Little Wick found it strange. The log always said back whatever it had heard an hour before.

So Isla held her breath and listened. The log said, "Bok, bok." Then it said, in a deep, crumbly voice, "Off to the pond with my bread, Hen. The ducks won't feed themselves."

"Mr Fennel!" cried Isla.

She ran down the path to the pond, with the satchel thumping on her back. There he was, in his big brown hat, tossing crusts to the ducks.

"A blue letter, Mr Fennel," she puffed. "In your own hand."

He took it with a smile.

Behind them, the bell began to ring nine. Over by the stile, the log said it all again, very softly, to nobody. "Good morning! I have a letter!"