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Show j MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. Hark! Hear the shrill and thrilly sound. The postman plods upon his round; And, added to his bag of cares. His round is made of blocks or squares A mystery profound. Behold, he tramps across the street. And on the doorstep scrapes his feet: He whistles once and leaves the door, And humps upon his way once more Amid the dust and heat. He's coming! Ah, she has some mail ' Her face grows red, then pink, then pale. Her heart is filled with wild delight, For plainly some one thought to write That postman is a snail!' And. as the house he bids adieu. He leaves the Pumpkinvi'.le Bazoo A. circular on bathing mats, A bill for February hats And plods again upon his rounds The while his thrilly whistle sounds. |