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Itwastheoldladysbirthday. Shegotupearlytobereadyforthepost.
fromthesecondfloorflatshecouldseethepostmanwhenhecamedownthestreet,
andthelittleboyfromthe ground floorbrought up her letters on the rareoccasionswhenanythingcame.
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It was the old lady’s birthday.

She got up early to be ready for the post.from the second floor flat she could see the postman when he came down the street,and the little boy from the ground floor brought up her letters on the rare occasions when anything came.

Today she was there would be something.Myra wouldn’t forget her mother’s birthday,even if she seldom wrote at other times.Of course Myra was busy.Her husband had been made Mayor,and Myra herself had got a medal for her work for the aged.

The old lady was proud of Myra,but Enid was the daughter she loved.Enid had never married,but had seemed content to live with her mother,and teach in a primary school round the corner.

One evening,however,Enid said, “I’ve arranged for Mrs.Morrison to look after you for a few days,Mother.Tomorrow I’ve to go into hospital—just a minor operation.I’ll soon be home.”

In the morning she went,but never came back—she died on the operating table.Myra came to the funeral,and in her efficient way arranged for Mrs.Morrison to come in and light the fire and give the old lady her breakfast.

Two years ago that was,and since then Myra had been to see her mother three times,but her husband never.

The old lady was eighty today.She had put on her best dress.Perhaps—perhaps Myra might come.After all,eighty was a special birthday,another decade lived or endured just as you chose to look at it.

Even if Myra did not come,she would send a present.The old lady was sure of that.Two spots of colour brightened her cheeks.She was excited—like a child.She would enjoy her day.

Yesterday Mrs.Morrison had given the flat an extra clean,and today she had brought a card and a bunch of marigolds when she came to do the breakfast.Mrs.Grant downstairs had made a cake,and in the afternoon she was going down there to tea.The little boy,Johnnie,had been up with a packet of mints,and said he wouldn’t go out to play until the post had come.

“I guess you’ll get lots of presents,”he said, “I did last week when I was six.”

What would she like?A pair of slippers perhaps.Or a new cardigan.A cardigan would be lovely.Blue’s such a pretty colour.Jim had always liked her in blue.Or a table lamp.Or a book,a travel book,with pictures,or a little clock,with clear black numbers.So many lovely things.

She stood by the window,watching.The postman turned round the corner on his bicycle.Her heart beat fast.Johnnie had seen him too and ran to the gate.

Then clatter,clatter up the stairs.Johnnie knocked at her door.

“Granny,granny,”he shouted, “I’ve got your post.”

He gave her four envelopes.Three were unsealed cards from old friends.Th本论文由英语论文网提供整理，提供论文代写，英语论文代写，代写论文，代写英语论文，代写留学生论文，代写英文论文，留学生论文代写相关核心关键词搜索。