That winter roared in late and cold,
The phone line twisted down.
Snow covered every fence and road
And piled high all around.
We had a good-sized “tater” bin,
Some flour, meal, and grits,
With cans of lard and smokehouse meats
So we made the best of it.
No mail came in; none went out,
The phone was dead and so
We starved for news: Few folks had
“Newfangled” radios.
It seemed an age before the drifts
Packed down to hold a sleigh
And the mailman’s driving horse, shar-shod,
Came jingling out our way.
We’d scooped a path down to the box,
His eggshell sleigh turned in,
The horse was warm and blowing some-
He shouted “Hi” and grinned.
Mail-ordered packages piled high,
Seed catalogues and bills
About somebody’s auction sale
Away back in the hills.
Mom took most of the letters
And handed Pa the rest.
The seed books went to Grandpa
But, oh, the very best
That spring and summer catalogue
Square-cut and thick, it seemed,
Shall ever be the center of
A thousand winter dreams.
That sweet fresh ink aroma
Until this day prevails;
I wish I were a kid again
Waiting for the rural mail!
From the Ideals Country Treasury