PLAIN OLD KITCHEN CHAP
Mother’s furnished up the parlor—got a full,
new haircloth set,
And there ain’t a neater parlor in the county,
now, I’ll bet.
She has been a-hoarding pennies for a mighty
tedious time;
She has had the chicken money, and she’s saved
it, every dime.
And she’s put it out in pictures and in easy
chairs and rugs,
—Got the neighbors all a-sniffin’ ’cause we’re
puttin’ on such lugs.
Got up curtains round the winders, whiter’n
snow and all of lace,
Fixed that parlor till, by gracious, I should never
know the place.
And she says as soon’s it’s settled she shall give
a yaller tea.
And invite the whole caboodle of the neighbors
in to see.
Can’t own up that I approve it; seems too much
like fubb and fuss
To a man who’s lived as I have—jest a blamed
old kitchen cuss.
Course we’ve had a front room always; tidy place
enough, I guess,
Couldn’t tell, I never set there, never opened it
unless
Parson called, or sometimes mother give a party
or a bee,
When the women come and quilted and the men
dropped round to tea.
Now we’re goin’ to use it common. Mother
says it’s time to start,
If we’re any better’n heathens, so’s to sweeten
life with art.
Says I’ve grubbed too long with plain things,
haven’t lifted up my soul.
Says I’ve denned there in the kitchen like a
woodchuck in his hole.
—It’s along with other notions mother’s getting
from the club;
But I’ve got no growl a-comin’, mother ain’t let
up on grub!
Still I’m wishin’ she would let me have my
smoke and take my nap
In the corner, side the woodbox; I’m a plain old
kitchen chap.
I have done my stent at farmin’; folks will tell
you I’m no shirk;
There’s the callus on them fingers, that’s the
badge of honest work.
And them hours in the corner when I’ve stum-
bled home to rest
Have been earnt by honest labor and they’ve
been my very best.
Land! If I could have a palace wouldn’t ask no
better nook
Than this corner in the kitchen with my pipe
and some good book.
I’m a sort of dull old codger, clear behind the
times, I s’pose;
Stay at home and mind my bus’ness; wear some
pretty rusty clothes;
’Druther set out here’n the kitchen, have for
forty years or more,
Till the heel of that old rocker’s gouged a holler
in the floor;
Set my boots behind the cook stove, dry my old
blue woolen socks,
Get my knife and plug tobacker from that dented
old tin box,
Set and smoke and look at mother clearing up
the things from tea;
—Rather tame for city fellers, but that’s fun
enough for me.
I am proud of mother’s parlor, but I’m feared
the thing has put
Curi’s notions her noddle, for she says I’m
underfoot;
Thinks we oughter light the parlor, get a crowd
and ontertain,
But I ain’t no city loafer,—I’m a farmer down in
Maine.
Course I can’t hurt mother’s feelin’s, wouldn’t
do it for a mint,
Yet that parlor business sticks me, and I guess
I’ll have to hint
That I ain’t an ontertainer, and I’ll leave that
job to son;
I’ll set out here in the kitchen while the folks
are having fun.
And if marm comes out to get me, I will pull
her on my lap,
And she’ll know—and she’ll forgive me, for I’m
jest a kitchen chap.