Page 24 - Poetry-Family

Darius said nothing to Mercy about it:
It was crooked wood—even she could not doubt it:
But never a harsh word escaped her sweet lips,
Any more than if the old snags were smooth chips.
She boiled with them, baked with them, washed with them through
The long winter months, and none ever knew·
But the wood was as straight as Mehitable Drew,
Who was straight as a die, or a gun, or an arrow,
And who made it her business all male hearts to harrow.

When the pile was burned up, and they needed more wood,
“Sure, now,” mused Darius, “I shall catch it good;
She has kept her remarks all condensed for the Spring,
And my ears, for the trick, now deserve well to sing.
She never did scold me, but now she will pout,
And say with such wood she is nearly worn out.”

But Mercy, unruffled, was calm, like the stream
That reflects back at evening the sun’s perfect beam;
And she looked at Darius, and lovingly smiled,
As she made this request with a temper unriled:
“We are wanting more fuel, I’m sorry to say;
I burn a great deal too much every day,
And I mean to use less than I have in the past;
But get, if you can, dear, a load like the last;
I never had wood that I liked half so well—
Do see who has nice crooked fuel to sell:
There’s nothing that’s better than wood full of knots,
It fays so complete round the kettles and pots,
And washing and cooking are really like play
When the sticks nestle close in so charming a way.”

—(Harper’s, 1881)

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