LAST Thursday, down by Slipshod Hill, Jest south of Waterburyville, There where the talc teams ebb and flow With loads of steatitic snow— The stuff that seems to take the place Of water on a school girl's face, Enough of which is dug and ground Each year to fill Long Island Sound— I saw a sight of health and hope, To wit: a farmer making soap. As quick as any duck can quack My saponaceous days came back; Old times uprose before my eye And I was lost in thought and lye; Again I felt the call to preach I had when cleaning out the leach; Again I longed to "fire" a train, As when the soap was "right" to strain— But why in Memory's backroom mope? Let's get to work and make some soap. The leach cleaned out and contents sowed Upon the knoll there, next the road, The winter ashes forth we brought From here and there, and what a lot! Each thing of iron, brass or tin Was full as you could jam 'em in; I've seen a pretty decent churn Obliged to do a storage turn— You see, a farmer has to cope With forty things, a-making soap. Then next we fellers had to bring The water from the orchard spring; Five trips a day, two pails a trip, We fetched before the lye would drip; Then six big pails for two days more, Until it run three streams or four; By then that lye could almost speak, Beside it liquid fire is weak, And when 'twould eat a piece of rope We knew 'twas time to make the soap. The mother 'gredients then we'd get From out the woodhouse, where they set; The ham stubs, knuckles, bacon rinds, And bones and bits of many kinds; Perhaps some headcheese, turning strong, Or sassage that had lived too long; All these within the cauldron fell With hopes the fairies wished us well, For powers beyond our mortal scope Preside o'er mayonnaise and soap. We next lit up the fire and stood Around and "stirred" and knocked on wood; We had a special rakestail hoe With which to start an undertow, And when the mess boiled up @3en masse@1 It looked as rich as Roman glass; We'd cross our fingers then for fun For who can tell when soap is done! You've kinder got to guess and grope And talk mysterious, making soap. The straining basket then we took A-down from off the girder hook, The sides a-nothing much but slits, The bottom gone and et to bits, And stuffed it full of "hay and grain" And then all hands commenced to strain; We filled the old wood pails up good, And lugged 'em where the soaptank stood, And then with spinal cords aslope We emptied in the fresh-laid soap. But when that soap was ripe and dry No Dutchman's cleanser need apply; It only took one dishcloth swish To purify the oatmeal dish; The great big bubbles made of suds Threw rainbows off, like diamond studs; To clean a cut or stop a bruise, There wan't no likelier thing to use— 'Twas worth the pains, 'twas health and hope To make and own a tub of soap. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE DUNES OF INDIANA by EDGAR LEE MASTERS THE LOVE SONNETS OF PROTEUS: 88. A DAY IN SUSSEX by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT THIRTY BOB A WEEK by JOHN DAVIDSON A MUSICAL by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR THE TERRIBLE SONNETS: 3 by GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS ON SOME BUTTERCUPS by FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN |