I tried to prove the validity of a kindly thought with no selling device attached to it; I tried to make it such a word of frank companionship as I myself, working in my own fields, would like to receive.
Among the letter-boxes in the group was one that stood a little detached and behind the others, as though shrinking from such prosperous company.
It was made of unpainted wood, with leather hinges, and looked shabby in comparison with the jaunty red, green, and gray paint of some of the other boxes (with their cocky little metallic flags upraised).

It bore the good American name of Clark--T.

N.Clark--and it seemed to me that I could tell something of the Clarks by the box at the crossing.
"I think they need a friendly word," I said to myself.
So I wrote the name T.N.Clark on my envelope and put the letter in his box.
It was with a sense of joyous adventure that I now turned aside into the sandy road and climbed the hill.

My mind busied itself with thinking how I should carry out my experiment, how I should approach these Clarks, and how and what they were.

A thousand ways I pictured to myself the receipt of the letter: it would at least be something new for them, something just a little disturbing, and I was curious to see whether it might open the rift of wonder wide enough to let me slip into their lives.
I have often wondered why it is that men should be so fearful of new ventures in social relationships, when I have found them so fertile, so enjoyable.