The Verse-Book Of A Homely Woman | Page 9

witnesses of treatment meted out?In regions nether.
O patient sufferer of many bumps!?I ask it gently -- shall the dustbin hold
you??And will the dust-heap, with its cabbage
stumps,?At last enfold you?
It ought. And yet with gentle hands I
place?You with my priceless Delft and Dresden
china,?For sake of one who loved your homely
face?In days diviner.
To a Rebellious?Daughter
You call authority "a grievous thing."?With careless hands you snap the
leading string,?And, for a frolic (so it seems to you),?Put off the old love, and put on the new.
For "What does Mother know of love?"
you say.?"Did her soul ever thrill??Did little tendernesses ever creep?Into her dreams, and over-ride her will??Did her eyes shine, or her heart ever leap?As my heart leaps to-day??I, who am young; who long to try my
wings!
How should she understand,?She, with her calm cool hand??She never felt such yearnings? And,
beside,?It's clear I can't be tied?For ever to my mother's apron strings."
There are Infinities of Knowledge, dear.?And there are mysteries, not yet made
clear?To you, the Uninitiate. . . . Life's book?Is open, yes; but you may only look?At its first section. Youth?Is part, not all, the truth.?It is impossible that you should see?The end from the beginning perfectly.
You answer: "Even so.?But how can Mother know,?Who meditates upon the price of bacon??On 'liberties' the charwoman has taken,?And on the laundry's last atrocities??She knows her cookery book,?And how a joint of English meat should
look.?But all such things as these?Make up her life. She dwells in tents,
but I?In a vast temple open to the sky."
Yet, time was, when that Mother stooped
to learn?The language written in your infant face.?For years she walked your pace,?And none but she interpreted your chatter.?Who else felt interest in such pitter-patter??Or, weary, joined in all your games with
zest,?And managed with a minimum of rest??Now, is it not your turn?To bridge the gulf, to span the gap between
you??To-day, before Death's angel over-lean
you,?Before your chance is gone??This is worth thinking on.
"Are mothers blameless, then?" Nay,
dearie, nay.?Nor even tactful, always. Yet there may?Come some grey dawning in the by
and by,?When, no more brave, nor sure, nor strong,
you'll cry?Aloud to God, for that despised thing,?The old dear comfort -- Mother's apron
string.
For Mothering!
Up to the Hall, my lady there'll wear
her satin gown,?For little Miss and Master'll be coming
down from town.?Oh ay, the childern's coming! The
CHILDERN did I say??Of course, they're man and woman grown,
this many and many a day.?But still, my lady's mouth do smile, and
squire looks fit to sing,?As Master John and Miss Elaine is coming
Mothering.
Then down to Farmer Westacott's, there's
doings fine and grand,?Because young Jake is coming home from
sea, you understand.?Put into port but yesternight, and when
he steps ashore,?'Tis coming home the laddie is, to Somerset
once more.?And so her's baking spicy cakes, and stirring
raisins in,?To welcome of her only chick, who's
coming Mothering.
And what of we? And ain't we got no
childern for to come??Well, yes! There's Sam and Henery,
and they'll be coming home.?And Ned is very nigh six foot, and Joe is
six foot three!?But childern still to my good man, and
childern still to me!?And all the vi'lets seem to know, and all
the thrushes sing,?As how our Kate, and Bess and Flo is
coming Mothering.
Little Fan
When little Fanny came to town, I
felt as I could sing!?She were the sprackest little maid, the
sharpest, pertest thing.?Her mother were as proud as punch, and
as for I -- well, there!?I never see sich gert blue eyes, I never
see sich hair!?"If all the weans in Somerset," says I,
"was standin' here,?Not one could hold a candle light, 'longside
our little dear."
Now FANNY'S little Fan have come! She's
clingin' round my knees,?She's asking me for sups of tea, and bites
of bread and cheese.?She's climbing into grandma's bed, she's
stroking grandma's face.?She's tore my paper into bits and strawed
it round the place.?"If all the weans in all the world," says
I, "was standin' here,?Not one could hold a farthin' dip to
Fanny's little dear!"?For Fanny's little Fanny -- oh, she's took
the heart of me!?'Tis childern's childern is the CROWN of
humble folk like we!
The Naughty Day
I've had a naughty day to-day.
I scrunched a biscuit in my hair,?And dipped my feeder in the milk,
And spread my rusk upon a chair.
When mother put me in my bath,
I tossed the water all about,?And popped the soap upon my head,
And threw the sponge and flannel out.
I wouldn't let her put my hand
Inside the arm-hole of my vest;?I held the sleeve until she said
I really never SHOULD be dressed.
And while she made the beds, I found
Her tidy, and took out the hairs;?And then I got the water-can
And tipped it headlong down the stairs.
I crawled along the kitchen floor,
And got some coal out of the box,?And drew black pictures on the walls,
And wiped my fingers on my socks.
Oh, this HAS been a naughty day!
That's why they've put me off to bed.?"He CAN'T get into mischief there,
Perhaps we'll have some peace," they?said.
They put the net across my cot,
Or else downstairs again I'd