The Kenosha telegraph. [volume] (Kenosha, Wis.) 1860-1888, 1888-06-01
NOT FOR a WOMAN TO SAY.


a woman to say;
You'll never lave acres enough, though, let 1t
be yea or nay;
You're poorer to-day with your added farms
than when you began, you know,
More than thirty-fiye years ago, John, thirty
five years ago.
Together we've scrimped and saved, John, and
together we've plodded and worked,
And none will say I've held you back, or ever
a duty shirked;
I'm only woman, and where I've failed I've
failed as woman would,
But I've Gone as well as / could, John, I've
done as well as could.
I've MIXED the cows and churned the butter,
I've knitted and sewed and spun,
Tended the house and kept the bees, but never
my work was done.
With wooden churn and spinning-wheal
I've stood on puncheon floor
For these thirty-hve years and more, john
thirty-6Ve years and more.
But never sign Of a carpet came till wove it.,
you know, myself;
Never a spoon but an iron spoon, and never q
dish but deli;
Instead Of a cooking stove, pot and skillet to
bake and brew,
With hook in an open fireplace, John, burnt
almost through and through.
Splt-bottom chairs, a table OF deal, with never
cover at all;
This was our kitchen in spring, John, summer,
and winter and fall;
We cooked and we washed, and we ate and
slept and lived in the self-same room,
For little we had and hard we toiled, all for the
sake of home.
The cabin was tidy for that John, and I'd never
word of blame
Till Sue, and Bob and Tom were born, and
-. after the baby came,
And then for their saSes and not my own en-
tered my first complaint,
For was never an angel, John, and you were
never saint.
And you said barn was needed more, besides
woman could wait,
~ Though we were rich, yet all we had we had in
our real estate;
Times were hard and money was scarce, and
you owed for the ten-acre lot
But my little debt you forgot, John, my little
debt you forgot 9
own I'm a terrible dullard, John, 1 never
could understand
Why some men are always poor with hundreds
of acres of land.
But L waited and waited and waited till you
should get out of debt
And ifTd have kept my patience John, might
have been waiting yet.
For dressed in my lnsey-woolsey then, and
you in your home-wrought jeans,
While my money went for children's clothes
and yours for farm machines
And after we paid for the place, too, with little
to eat and to wear
Twas more than woman could bear, John,
more than woman could bear
But bore it as long as could, John, and got,
when the girls were grown,
A couple Of rooms from the lumber after the
barn was done,
Because, though the cabin was big for two,
twas little enough for ten,
When baby Sue was woman grown, and the
boys were almost men.
I'm afraid you're forgetting the children, John,
forgetting the wrong you do,
AS if they stood upon four legs instead of like
men on two,
With never a penny, but harder worked than
an OK, horse or a mule,
With nine months given to farmers work and
three months given to school,
Money that goes for a rod of land is grudgingly
spent for u book
And the term of school brings with it the regu-
lar winter croak,
Why children are never content to be as wise
as their fathers were
But we've no learning to spare, John, we've no
learning to spare.
Susan and Robert must use the slate that you
began ciphering on,
And the other must use 1t, too John, when
Susan and Robert ore done;
It's well enough to be saving, John, but it may
be penny wise
TO tempt the Lord of the Sabbath with your
little economies
You love all the children, OF course, John, you
love all the children, of course,
But your kind of love may some day be little
less than q CURSE
Far better to give them in schooling the pay
for the work they've done,
And let them begin as we did, thirty-flve years
agone
You were always good In your way, John, good
enough in your way,
But then you were left to yourself you know,
and nobody said you nay;
For l say what you know to be true John, go
".- as you have begun
And the happiest days of our lives will be the
ones that are gone
There's often a greater famine, john than q
famine for lack OF bread
And for soul to be hungry, 'twere little worse
to be dead,
What matters it whittier we so, John, what
maitcrs III Whlther we go,
Just how many acres of land we had While we
were here below?
There's little we're getting to keep, John
there's little we're getting to keep,
And tho Bible s&ys what we sow here thdt shall
we also reap.
It's popular not on now, John, the preacher
said it, you know,
We shall have all we want above of the things
we have loved below,
And when 1 have tried to imagine what 6
Heaven like that would be,
I've had me o place selected, If they have Sc
lected me.
You think you have treated me kindly, John
and perhaps it may be true,
But I'll not be farmers wife there If any
thing else will do.
And I've thought of the farmers there, John
and some that are not yet dead,
II tho Lord could accommodate all Of them
how very much land He had.
And I've wondered If would get rested, thor
oughly rested again;
For IL often seems to me now, John, as II
never have been.
I'm not complaining of you, John, I'm not com
planning of you
I'm only telling you some things that you have
forgotten to do;
And trying to break up the fever that's creep
ing on you by stealth,
That's making poor man out of you right il
the midst of wealth.
For you see we're going along in years, tn,
winters have left their trace,
And those that are yet to come, John, will onl,
be ours by grace;
And since we've plodded for thirty-hve years
podded from dew till dsw,
Won't IT be well now to rest, John, just for
year or twos
But it's not for woman to say, John, it's no
for woman to say,
I'm told tits the part OF a man to will,
woman's part to obey,
And I've done my part, and always SHALL til
one OF us be dead,
For love you none the less, dear John, than
did when we were wed.
Il s. Hopkins, IN Coarier-Jomndl.
HIS SECOND WIFE.