This Poem was written by Mrs. Florence Burlingame Taylor,of Cleveland, Ohio,
but a well known school teacher of Saltsburg several years ago.
What she has written comes straight from the heart, and the author hopes it
will find an echo, in the hearts of other mothers.
The house of my neighbor is shiny and clean;
No mud tracks lead up to her door.
Her porch is as clean as a table should be -
While mine is a place I deplore.
Rare vines, unmolested, caress post and rail
On my neighbor's veranda so wide:
Low ferneries that show their delicate fronds,
While on my porch no fern could abide.
Her rugs, rich and soft, reflect India's calm;
Her lamps are imported and rare;
Her furniture bears not a scratch nor a smudge -
For no children have ever lived there.
My rugs are all spotted, and paths worn across
With the tramp of exuberant feet.
The piano and table bear plainly the marks
Where the cast-iron horse hoofs beat.
My neighbor steps out on a hot summer's day,
Fresh and cool in her lavender voile -
While I am all rumpled, disheveled, and limp,
With babies and unending toil.
In winter she puts on her ermine and plush;
Steps into her sheltered sedan;
While I in my wolf-fur and old touring car
Know the bite of cold winter's sharp fang.
Ah, she and her husband sink back in soft chairs,
Wind the magic victrola, and lo;
The world's finest music on record comes forth
To thrill 'till the heart's all aglow.
But we have some music that they cannot buy,
The patter of dear, tiny feet;
The innocent chatter, the laughter, the cry,
Oh the music of childhood is sweet.
What care I for ermine? The velvety touch
Of a child’s arms in loving embrace
Gives one a feeling of infinite wealth
That no money can buy or replace.
Just one golden curl from our Sonny boy’s head
Is more precious than earth’s finest pearl;
And more to be treasured than sapphires untold
Are the blue eyes of our little girl.
Florence B. Taylor