  If there is one gift that I prize above others, That tinges with brightness whatever I do, And gives to the sombre a roseate hue, 'Tis a legacy mine from the nicest of mothers, Who haply the beauty of housewifery knew, And taught me her neatness and diligence too. So is my discomfort a house in disorder: The service uncleanly, the linen distained, The children like infantry rude and untrained; The portieres dusty and frayed at the border, By lavish expenses the pocketbook drained, And miseries numberless never explained. I dream not of pleasure in visions untidy, A wrapper all hole-y, a buttonless shoe, A slatternly matron with nothing to do; And all the ill-luck charged to ominous Friday Can never compare with the ills that ensue On wretched housekeeping and cookery too. There's many a husband, a patient bread-winner, Gets up from the table with look of despair, And something akin to the growl of a bear; One driven to fasting but not unto prayer— Till epitaphed thus—"Indigestible Fare." There's many a child, from the roof-tree diurnal, A scene of distraction or dullness severe, With the longing of youth for diversion and cheer, That comes like the spring-time refreshing and vernal, Goes out on a ruinous, reckless career, Returning, if ever, not many a year. O negligent female, imperfect housekeeper, Though faultless in figure and charming of face, In ruffles of ribbon and trailings of lace Usurping the part of a common street-sweeper, You never can pose as a type of your race In frowsy appearance mid things out of place. O fashion-bred damsel, with folly a-flutter, Until you have learned how to manage a broom, If never you know how to tidy a room, Manipulate bread or decide about butter, The duties of matron how dare you assume, Or ever be bride to a sensible groom? All down at the heels in their slipper-y tread, Who hunt for the rolling-pin under the bed, Who look with disdain on intelligent workers And take to the club or the circus instead Of mending a stocking or laying the spread. Oh, I dream of a system of perfect housekeeping, Where mistress and helper together compete In excellent management, quiet and neat; And though in the bosom of earth I am sleeping, Shall somebody live to whom life will be sweet And home an ideal, idyllic retreat. |
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