Small-Town Postmaster
W
ITH pleasant face abeam he stands
And deals the mail with skillful hands.
He does not hesitate at all
To read the cards before they fall
Into the slots where they belong.
He has no thought that it is wrong.
He loves his neighbors as he should,
Our ins and outs, the bad the good;
He knows whose boy is overseas,
He hands out letters, glad to please
The eager-reaching ones; he shares
The small town’s grief and loss—he cares
When sorrow comes, and he is glad
For any good news we have had;
And he can weep, and he can laugh,
And he can quibble, he can chaff;
But our small homes and streets would dim
If suddenly deprived of him.
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