My great-grandfather, Jim, had a multitude of professions during his regrettably short life, one of which was as a postman in mid-nineteenth century rural Minnesota. As the story goes, one winter day he had been much delayed by the depth of the snow, and come the afternoon another snowstorm overtook him. Around twilight, he realized he was lost and had no idea how to find the road. As the blizzard whipped up around him, he resolutely continued searching, thinking about his wife and nine children waiting for him back on the farm.

Suddenly, a small boy was standing by the side of the wagon, looking up at him. In desperation, Jim asked which way the road was. The boy smiled and pointed. Gratefully, Jim turned the horse that way, and then paused, wondering why a boy was standing in the middle of a storm. He turned around to call back to the boy, only to find him gone. Jim jumped down and ran back, calling for his benefactor. He discovered that not only was the boy missing, but there were no footprints in the snow; no indication, indeed, that anyone had been there at all.

The road was where the boy had pointed, and Jim got home safely that night.