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Parcel Postludes

From The San Francisco Call, February 4, 1913.

 O’er many a weary, aching mile
     The parcel postman ambled
 And when he reached our domicile
     The eggs he brought were scrambled.
 The hat he left for Mabel, too,
     Caused her poor heart to flutter;
 ’Twas saturated through and through
     With some one’s melted butter.
 And Brother Bill is tearing hot
     He doesn’t think it’s funny
 The socks and ties and shirts he got
     By mail were smeared with honey.
 But father’s smile is soft and bland;
     We all know by that token
 His snake bite cure, though contraband,
     Came through the mail unbroken.

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