Main Street is gay. Each lamppost glimmers,
Crowned with a blue, electric star.
The gift tree by our fountain shimmers,
Superbly tall, if angular
(Donated by the Men's Bazaar).
With garlands proper to the times
Our doors are wreathed, our lintels strewn.
From our two steeples sound the chimes,
Incessant, through the afternoon,
Only a little out of tune.
Breathless, with boxes hard to handle,
The grocery drivers come and go.
Madam the Chairman lights a candle
To introduce our club's tableau.
The hopeful children pray for snow.
They cluster, mittened, in the park
To talk of morning, half affrighted,
And early comes the winter dark
And early are our windows lighted
To beckon homeward the benighted.
The eggnog's lifted for libation,
Silent at last the postman's ring,
But on the plaza near the station
The carolers are caroling.
"O Little Town!" the carolers sing.
