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by Abigail Van Buren

Luck Was Indeed a Lady on Special Night in 1930

DEAR ABBY: Recently you told your readers that people don't write letters because they are busier now and communicate in ways that don't take that much time. I take issue with the statement about how busy people are today compared with a few years ago, and I submit this poem from The Bald Eagle, a newsletter of the Lecompton Historical Society of Lecompton, Kan. -- PAT CASTRO, RAMONA, CALIF.


Mama's mama, on a winter's day,

Milked the cows and fed them hay,

Slopped the hogs, saddled the mule,

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 wood and lugged it in,

Enough to fill the kitchen bin,

Cleaned the lamps and put in oil,

Stewed some apples she thought might spoil,

Churned the butter, baked a cake,

Then exclaimed, "For goodness sake!

The calves have got out of the pen!"

Went out and chased them in again.

Gathered the eggs and locked the stable,

Returned to the house and set the table.

Cooked a supper that was delicious,

And afterward washed all the dishes,

Fed the cat, sprinkled the clothes,

Mended a basket full of hose.

Then opened the organ and began to play,

"When You Come to the End of a Perfect Day."