THE VILLAGE STORE

Your architecture may be plain,

Your windows may not appertain

Or vie with shops, their fonts agleam

In simulated marble theme.

The streamlined world, perhaps, contends You’re out of pace with modern trends, But we who oft unlatch your door, Cherish and love you, Village store.

The years removed your hitching post, Your buggy whips, but not your host. Though you be tired from weight of time, His goodwill still works overtime.

With gratitude we lift our hat

To one whose practice has been that Short weight is an abomination —

And honesty needs application.

Your cracker barrel has given way

To a more colourful purvey;

Your stove, with its potbellied maw, Where cronies met to smoke and chaw, Passed with the oil lamp and the scythe, The herring keg, yet you are blithe. You’ve lost none of the atmosphere That closely knit your long career.

How well you know the depth, the scale Of all who come to you for mail - Letters from friends near and afar - How hopeful and intent we are.

But Oh, how you must get the cramps When we drop coins instead of stamps! Surprise would turn our P.M. pale

If we put stamps on all our mail.

Let others seek the super mart —

We favour you , a staunch rampart Against the tide of rush, unrest,

And the forever frenzied quest

For something new - we know not what, Your master is a patriot,

A neighbour and a Commodore

And keeper of you, Village Store.

73

S. Barlow Bird