In Germany
there is a saying, "_So grob wie ein postbeamter_." The postmaster of
Karansebes was a glorious exception to the rule.
On one occasion, while I was waiting in the office for an answer to one
of the many telegrams that I had despatched, a peasant woman came in
with a letter without an address. The postmaster seeing this, and
thinking she could not write, asked her to whom he should address the
letter. She was dreadfully indignant with him for his well-meant offer,
and said, "My son knows all about it--it is no business of yours."
"But I can't forward it without an address," objected the postmaster.
"Yes, you must," she rejoined, getting more and more angry--"you must;
that's what you are paid for doing."
Here some other people came to the rescue, and by dint of all talking at
once for full twenty minutes, they induced her to give her son's
address; but it was a clear case of "convinced against her will," for as
she quitted the office she turned round and said, with a shake of the
head, "It's all very well to put that; but my son will know who it is
from."
Karansebes is not at all a bad place as headquarters for the sportsman.
In the neighbourhood there is very good snipe-shooting in spring and
autumn. The fishing too is excellent for trout and grayling. The bear,
the wolf, and the chamois are to be met with on the heights, which form
this portion of the great horseshoe of the Carpathians.
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