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.