AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A PENNSYLVANIAN
| What use it is to dream about old books |
| And such like rubbish when the flour's all gone |
| And me and his poor children have not got |
| A decent thing to wear, I do not see. |
| Now there's Epaminondas' pants. If I |
| Have patched them once, I've patched them forty times |
| Until the stuff's so thin the thread won't hold |
| And yet he goes a-sneaking through the house |
| His eyes half shut, his thoughts intent upon |
| Elysium or some other place, and can |
| Not see the boy's ashamed to turn his back |
| Toward any one. No wonder that I scold |
| But 'tain't a bit of use. He pays no more |
| Attention than a post. I might as well |
| Be pouring water in the Hellespont. |
| He all the while that soft and sheepish smile |
| Will wear upon his face and count the flies |
| Along the wall until I stop to get |
| My breath, and then he walks away without |
| A word. I get so mad, it makes me feel |
| As if I were Erymneus. 'Tother day |
| When I for fully half an hour had been |
| A-telling him about the ham we want, |
| He stared and slowly said, “Yes, Critias, |
| The cycle system must be right.” I up |
| And snatched the basin of hot water that |
| I had to wash the dishes with and poured |
| The slops upon his old bald head. He wiped |
| His face and muttered, “When the thunders cease, |
| Then comes the rain.” He'll be the death of me, |
| I know. |
My Mother
| The Spartan mothers in the days of old, |
| So runs the story, were entire content |
| To see their sons who forth to battle went |
| Return with maims and wounds, were they but bold; |
| Or slain, if that no mark of shame they bore |
| To show they faltered when they met the foe; |
| Such gifts these Grecian mothers could bestow— |
| Such sacrifices as a crown they wore. |
| My mother wears a crown of greener bay, |
| And offers better gifts by far than they, |
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