Two Ends to Every Stick
By J. M. GREEN, Portage la Loche.
Oh, it’s easy for to sit and grouch when letters don’t arrive;
Letters you’ve been waitin’ for and letters that you prize;
And you sit and cuss the postman, and you cuss the bloomin’ mail,
And maybe you cuss the writer and pile it good and thick,
But have you ever stopped to think of his end of the stick?
You can sit in cosy rooms back home, the Post does all the rest.
Perhaps to post a letter you walk a block at best.
And then you sit and wonder why the devil don’t he write?
To keep us all awaitin’, it’s a shame–it isn’t right.
And you growl like a grizzly. Sure; you’d make an Indian sick,
Just because you don’t know anything of his end of the stick.
Suppose the nearest mail box was a hundred miles or more.
And no one but yourself to pack the letters to your door;
And suppose there ain’t no street cars, no motors, not a road.
Just a team of mangy mongrels to help you pack your load;
And its forty below zero, and your feet both feel like brick,
I wonder what would happen were that your end of the stick?
And s’pose the mail man ain’t arrived an’ spring’s set in at last,
And there ain’t no snow but just the ice arotten’ good and fast;
And you know to miss the mail man means to wait three months or so
Before you read a letter, and you don’t want for to go,
But you can’t wait any longer and your heart is mighty sick,
I wonder would you grumble, would you grin, or would you stick?