Poor Housekeeping.

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;     Not the saint he might be, but a querulous sinner -         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?     I covet no part with that army of shirkers         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.