Mis’ Smith

ALL day she hurried to get through,

The same as lots of wimmin do;

Sometimes at night her husban’ said,

“Ma, ain’t you goin’ to come to bed?”

And then she’d kinder give a hitch,

And pause half way between a stitch,

And sorter sigh, and say that she

Was ready as she’d ever be,

She reckoned.

And so the years went one by one,

An’ somehow she was never done;

An’ when the angel said, as how

“Mis’ Smith, it’s time you rested now,”

She sorter raised her eyes to look

A second, as a stitch she took;

“All right, I’m comin’ now,” says she,

“I’m ready as I’ll ever be,

I reckon.”