The Mother’s Lecture
THERE’S nothing, did you say, Reuben?
There’s nothing, nothing at all,
There’s nothing to thank the Lord for
This disappointing fall.
For the frost it cut your corn down,
Right when ’twas looking best,
And then took half the garden,—
The drouth took all the rest.
The wheat was light as light could be,
Not half a proper crop,
Then the fire burned your fences,
And burned till it had to stop.
The cows were poor because the grass
Withered all up in the heat,
And cows are things that won’t keep fat
Unless they have plenty to eat.
Suppose the frost did take the corn,
And the cattle are not fat,
Another harvest is coming—
You might thank the Lord for that.
The fire that burned your fences down,
And laid your haystacks flat,
Left the old house above your head,
You might thank the Lord for that.
You’ve lost from field, and barn, and fold,
You’ve that word “loss” very pat,
But you’ve lost nothing from the home,—
You might thank the Lord for that.