MY AUNT'S WORK-BOX.
Sure, such a mess was never seen
Of white and brown and black and green!
Not Noah's Ark, Pandora's box,
Such dire confusion e'er displayed
Here's wool, shorn from the fleecy flocks
That o'er Circassian Meadows strayed,
With spools of cotton, every number;
Buttons and studs, and other lumber;
Needles of every size and kind,
The blunts and sharps, the coarse and fine;
White linen, recent wounds to bind;
And rows of pins in order to shine.
Lo! Thimbles, for each finger fit,
And yarn too darn with or to knitt.
Here's sewing-silk of every hue
From brilliant red to modest blue;
And floss, with which the maiden traces,
With all the painter's art and skill,
Flowers, landscapes, birds, and human faces,
The verdant field or purling rill.
Here every sort of thread is seen,
The jolly ball and languid skein;
And here's the ivory thing that shapes
Small eyelet-holes in caps and capes.
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Look at that pair of rusty tweezers!
They must blame their many years.
Dear! what a tiny pair of scissors!
Sure, they're the twins of those huge shears.
Here's lots of crewel, which I mean
To use, someday, to work the screen.
Here are pin-cushions and emery bags,
Small shreds of lace and other rags,
Linen, calico, and crape,
And hanks of twine and bits of tape.
In short, here's every earthly thing
That thrifty wife could wish, I ween;
But I've not time to say or sing
The treasures of this magazine.