He rarely passed anything more interesting than a jack-rabbit, but this morning he spied something ahead that aroused his curiosity.
At first it seemed only a flash of something pink beating the air; but, as he jogged nearer, he saw that the flash of pink was a short-skirted gingham dress.

A high-peaked Mexican hat hid the face of the wearer, but it needed no second glance to tell him who she was.

Every line of the sturdy little figure, from the uplifted arms brandishing a club to the dusty shoes planted widely apart to hold her balance, proclaimed that it was Mary Ware.

As the blows fell with relentless energy, the postman chuckled.
"Must be killing a snake," he thought.

"Whatever it is, it will be flatter than a pancake when she gets through with it." Somehow he always felt like chuckling when he met Mary Ware.