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,