Every time my mother sews Some kind of button on my clo'es, It always gives me a surprise To see how fast the needle flies. In buttons all the difference is, They have four little holes or two; But just whichever hole she says, She makes her needle-point come through! She never seems to aim, But it's always just the same— It's as int'restin' to watch her as 'most any sort of game. But when I start to sewin' one, Why, just as soon as I've begun, The thread gets tangled as can be, Or keeps a-gettin' caught on me. An' after all the time it takes To get the needle goin' some, It hits the button hard, an' breaks, Or comes one side an' pricks my thumb. But anybody knows That troubles such as those My mother never seems to have, no matter what she sews! An' so I think, when I have grown, And got a house that's all my own, An' wife an' family an' such, If I lose off my buttons much I'll have my mother always there To sew 'em on for me again; Unless she thought she wouldn't care To be so very busy then, Or somethin' else occurred That she thought that she preferred— But she says it is the nicest plan she ever, ever heard! |