THE STRENUOUS LIFE
THAT is your father, dear
Just going out the door;
Oh, he’s been living here
For seven years or more!
In business he’s so deep
He has no time to fret
With little girls, but keep
Up hope—we’ll meet him yet!
That is your mother, dear,
Just getting in the car,
She knows that you are here
And also who you are!
But what with clubs to meet
And bridge to play, you see,
With hours so short and fleet
She’s turned you o’er to me.
But there, my dear, don’t fret,
Or let those blue eyes blur,
Some time I know you’ll get
Acquainted, too, with her.
Why, sometimes, in the night
When angels vigil keep,
She asks if you’re all right
And when you went to sleep!
I think you’d like them both,
I think they’d both like you,
But what with “higher growth”
And many things to do
They’re simply rushed to death,
But there, my dear, don’t cry,
If they should stop for breath
We’ll meet them bye and bye.
A SONG OF MOTHERHOOD
SEW, sew, sew! For there’s many a rent to mend;
There’s a stitch to take and a dress to make,
For where do her labors end?
Sew, sew, sew! For a rent in a dress she spies,
Then it’s needle and thread and an aching head
And see how the needle flies!
Brush, brush, brush! For there’s many a boy to clean,
And start to school with a slate and rule,
With a breakfast to get between.
Comb, comb, comb! In the minute she has to spare,
For what is so wild—unreconciled
As the wastes of a youngster’s hair?
Sweep, sweep, sweep! Oh, follow the flashing broom,
And with towel bound her forehead round
She goes from room to room.
Dust, dust, dust! As down on her knees she kneels,
For there’s much to do in the hour or two
Of interval ’twixt meals.
Bake, bake, bake! For the cookie jar piled high
But yesterday in some curious way
Is empty again, Oh my!
Stir, stir, stir, in the froth of yellow and white,
For well she knows how the story goes
Of a small boy’s appetite.