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Old Mr. Pippin, a man whose eyebrows were so bushy they looked like two caterpillars napping on his forehead, was having a perfectly normal Tuesday. He was about to put a letter to his cousin Mildred into his mailbox when he saw it. The mailbox, a perfectly respectable, slightly rusty metal box, had grown a mustache. Not a regular mustache, mind you. This was a magnificent, curly, handlebar mustache made of what looked suspiciously like dandelion fluff and a little bit of moss.

Mr. Pippin blinked. Then he rubbed his eyes. The mustache remained, looking rather proud of itself. He squinted at his neighbor, Mrs. Gable, who was watering her petunias. She didn't seem to notice anything out of the ordinary. "Afternoon, Mr. Pippin!" she chirped.

"Mrs. Gable," he said slowly, "does my mailbox look... different to you?"

She peered across the lawn. "Why, it looks just lovely! You've always had such a sturdy mailbox." She went back to her petunias. Mr. Pippin, thoroughly confused, decided to investigate. He reached out to touch the mustache. It tickled his finger. He couldn't help but let out a little giggle. The mustache wiggled in response.

That's when he heard a tiny, high-pitched voice. "I've always wanted to be a famous painter," the voice squeaked. Mr. Pippin jumped back, nearly dropping Mildred's letter. The voice was coming from the mailbox.

"Who… who said that?" he stammered.

"Me! The mailbox!" it squeaked again. "And this is my first masterpiece. I call it 'A Post-Haste Portrait.'"

Mr. Pippin scratched his head. "But… why do you have a mustache?"

"It's not a mustache, it's art!" the mailbox insisted. "I got tired of just holding mail. I wanted to express myself. This is my 'Whimsy' phase. Next week, I'm thinking of growing a full-sized giraffe out of zinnias."

Mr. Pippin stared at the mailbox, then at Mrs. Gable’s perfect petunias, and then at Mildred's letter. He decided a giraffe made of zinnias was probably too much for one week. He gently tucked Mildred's letter into the mailbox. "Well, your mustache is very charming," he said. "Just, perhaps, no giraffes. The mail carrier might get confused." The mailbox hummed happily. Mr. Pippin smiled, his own bushy eyebrows wiggling with amusement. He figured his Tuesday was now very much not normal, and that was just fine by him.