I've eaten chicken a la king
And many a fancy dish,
I think I've tasted everything
The heart of man can wish;
But nightly when we dine alone,
My grateful praise I utter
Unto that good old stand-by, known
As mother's bread and butter.
Some think it very common fare
And may be they are right,
But I can take that wholesome pair
At morning, noon and night;
And there's a happy thrill I feel
That sets my heart a-flutter
As I sit down to make a meal
Of mother's bread and butter.
Though poets sing their favorite foods
In lilting lines and sweet,
And each unto his different moods
Tells what he likes to eat,
I still remain the little boy
Who gleefully would mutter
A youngster's gratitude and joy
For mother's bread and butter.
So now, for all the joy I've had
From such a wholesome pair
Since first I was a little lad
In hunger's deep despair,
I hold the finest food of all—
Though epicures may sputter
And sneer me from the banquet hall—
Is mother's bread and butter.
The Little Clothes Line
The little clothes line by the kitchen door!
My mother stretched it once when I was young,
And there the garments which the baby wore,
Each morning, very carefully, she hung.
Square bits of flannel fluttered in the breeze,
White stockings very delicate and small,
Long flowing dresses and the glad bootees,
A little blanket and a knitted shawl.
Then came the day when mother took it down,
And we forgot what symbols fluttered there;
We'd grown to breast the current of the town,
To fight for conquest and to stand to care.
Ten years ago she smiled and said to me:
"I want a little clothes line by the door."
And there she hung, for all the world to see,
The various bits of raiment which he wore.