Postman's Knock.

A postman without his envelope to stamp him as the spirit of Johnny Walker would be a dead letter, or a postscript that had missed the post. If found in such a state he would be returned unclaimed. Presumably postmen perambulate off duty, but unless they are in training for the all-red route or a dash for the pole—or at least the post—we suspect that they stay in bed where it doesn't matter whether they wear “zipps” on their bed socks to maintain their zip, or rub milk on their calves to keep them from becoming prematurely cowed. Some say that they wear hiking suits instead of pyjamas, lest they forget to remember and miss the post. But of all the uniformed fauna the postman is the most attractive. The postman's knock “knocks” us. The posty calls for poesy:

Of all the men who dress a part
The postman touches every heart,
And thrills our marrow with his whistle,
Which heralds—what? The plump epistle.
And even when our hope he kills
With circulars and butcher's bills,
We trust one day he'll get the wood
On Luck, and hand us something good,
Like legal word from far Nantucket,
That uncle Heck has kicked the bucket,
And having searched the family tree,
Has left us all his L.S.D.;
Or else some other news as “jake,”
To keep our faith in Luck awake.
But even when we draw a dud,
The posty's name is never Mud,
For though we feel our cake is dough—
With this and that—you never know!
Although no magi on a jag,
There's magic in the posty's bag.
Nonchalant, he dispenses—well,
The beauty is you ne'er can tell.
Although he's such a cheery chap,
Without his bag and captain's cap
He wouldn't be the same old “post”
To whom we drink a thankful toast.
So may no tyrant get his goat,
By nipping off his cap and coat,
For daily even those who miss'll
Still listen for the posty's whistle.

Clothes may be mere loose covers for renovating the physical furniture, but even an old sofa under a new cover gets a little touch of spring in its works. There are sermons in stones, but there are also tales in tailors.