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Grandmother, on a winter's day, milked the cows,

slopped the hogs, and got the children off to school;

did a washing, mopped the floors,

washed the windows, and did some chores;

cooked a dish of home-dried fruit,

pressed her husband's Sunday suit,

swept the parlor, made the bed,

baked a dozen loaves of bread,

split some firewood and lugged it in,

enough to fill the kitchen bin;

cleaned the lamps and put in oil,

stewed some apples she thought would spoil;

churned the butter, baked a cake,

then exclaimed, "For goodness' sake,

the calves have got out of the pen,"

and went out and chased them in again;

gathered the eggs and locked the stable,

back to the house and set the table,

cooked a supper that was delicious,

and afterward washed up all the dishes;

fed the cat and sprinkled the clothes,

mended a basketful of hose;

then opened the organ and began to play

"When you come to the end of a perfect day."

Gordon.