FAMILY HISTORY: POETRY Collection written by Elsie Strawn ARMSTRONG
  
  File contributed for use in USGenWeb Archives by: Les Howard Strawn
  
  Copyright 2006.  All rights reserved.
  http://www.usgwarchives.net/copyright.htm
  http://www.usgwarchives.net/pa/somerset/
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          CHAPTER SECOND
  
  Then the next we had to do was to weave the linen,
      That through the winter we had all been spinning;
  Web after web, I wove till all was done,
      And all the flax and tow that we had spun.
  
  And more than fifty years ago
      A pleasant sight was seen,
  Three hundred yards of linen
      Lay bleaching on the green.
  
  When I was wool, upstairs a spinning,
      My mother would call to me,
  And say, "Now go wet the linen;
      It 'is dry now, go and see."
  
  She would say, "Now do be careful
      And wet it every bit,
  And leave no little dry spot,
      The water does not hit."
  
  Our watering pot was beautiful,
      "Twas made so nice, of tin,
  Two handles, spout and nasal
      Through which the water'd spin.
  
  And it had a hundred little holes
      Where the water would spin out,
  And fly in all directions
      And wet it all about.
  
  And when the cloth was bleached,
      And made so nice and white,
  "Twas then we had the shirts and sheets
      And pillow cases right.
  
  And then we had the curtains
      To hand around our bed,
  And beautiful they were indeed,
      And painted blue and red.
  
  Likewise the snow-white counterpane,
      The double coverlet,
  And how delighted then I was
      To rest my childish head.
  
  Our dresses and our handkerchiefs
      Nearly all made at home,
  The clothing of the family
      The product of the loom.
  
  And in those days our ladies dressed
      In flax, wool or cotton,
  And little thought or cared about
      The velvet, silk or satin.
  
  And still I have some specimens
      Of what we used to do,
  And if you wish to see them
      Call in, and I'll show you.
  
  I have the sheets and the counterpanes
      And double coverlets,
  And tablecloths and towels
      And curtains for my bed.
  
  And dresses and the aprons
      And the kerchiefs for my neck,
  All of the good old homespun
      In which I still can deck.
  
  And when we left our parents,
      We had everyone a farm
  And horses, sheep and cattle
      That we might be fed and warmed.
  
  But now those blessed parents
      Have gone to their reward,
  They are resting from their labors
      And I trust, died in the Lord.
  
  Their works do follow them,
      And their children shall be fed,
  They shall not be forsaken,
      Nor their seed begging bread.
  
  And now my precious children,
      I have wrote some rustic rhymes
  In order to inform you
      Of the work of olden times.
  
  When your grandma was a child
      Among the Pennsylvania hills,
  The stony spots and ravines
      And lots of little rills.
  
  And there were a dozen springs
      On so small a farm as that,
  Not quite two hundred acres,
      And but little of it flat.
  
  But I love Pennsylvania,
      I love its springs and rills
  I love its fruits and nuts,
      And many more good things.
  
  I love its good inhabitants,
      So honest, frank, and kind,
  There were many noble hearts there,
      Still imprinted on my mind.
  
  I do love Pennsylvania,
      It is the place that gave me birth,
  I love it still the best
      Of any place on earth.