The cotton blouse you wear, your mother said, After a day of toil, "I guess I'll buy it;" For ribbons on your head and blouse she paid Two-bits a yard -- as if you would deny it! And nights, after a day of kitchen toil, She stitched your re-made skirt of serge -- once blue -- Weary of eye, beneath a lamp of oil: McDonogh would be proud of her and you. Next came white "creepers" and white stockings too -- They almost asked her blood when they were sold; Like some dark princess, to the school go you, With blue larkspur and yellow marigold; But few would know -- or even guess this fact: How dear comes beauty when a skin is black. |