My Mother's Apron
My mother's old checkered apron
Was a garment full and wide;
It filled its humble mission,
And a million more beside....
'Tws made of 6-cent gingham,
It was neither fine nor grand,
Just a plain and simple pattern,
Made by a busy hand;
It had a little cross-stitch
Along the bottom row
And two long strings that tied behind,
In a hasty half-hitch bow.
It had no lace or ruffles,
Nor pretty applique,
But its simple, homey usefulness
Was an epic of the day.
'Twas used to shoo the flies,
'Twas used to wipe away the tears,
From weeping infant's eyes,
'Twas used to carry in the eggs,
In leafy bowers,
And bring in half-drowned chicks
Caught in sudden showers.
'Twas used to fill the kindling box
With chips of cobs and twigs,
And tote the pesky pursley weed
From the garden to the pigs.
'Twas used to snatch the hot kettles
When a pot rag was not at hand,
To tighten on fruit jar lids
When winter stores were canned.
'Twas used to gather garden stuff
And peaches from the hill,
And many a mess of greens
Did Mother's apron fill.
Her hands were sheltered from the gale
Beneath the sheltered fold
And tiny feet nestled there
On mornings bleak and cold.
'Twas a queenly garment
And Mother was queen,
As memory brings back to me,
" Twas a noble thing, I ween,
And when I wander at Heaven's throng,
With robes so bright and fair,
I'll say the old checkered apron
Is what I want to wear.
-Author Unknown
