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Little Sister

She always had a crave to write,
    And when we walked from school,
Her bits of verse she would recite
    Until I felt a fool.
She filled a ten-cents copy-book
    With lines and lines of rhyme,
Until she had to wash and cook,
                        And had no time.

She ran the home - that's quite a chore;
    Her hours were hard and long.
Right heavy was the load she bore,
    And her not over-strong:
To milk the cows, to clean and byre,
    To wash and darn and mend;
To chop the faggots for the fire,
                        Toil, toil, no end.

"To paint the prairie," said she,
    "How words are weak and vain!
The earth as level as the sea,
    The sky God's window-pane.
How I would give my sum of days
    For beauty's sake if I
Could sing one starry hymn of praise
                        Before I die!"

Now she is dead and I'm alone,
    And still I sow and reap,
And work my fingers to the bone,
    While she is soft asleep.
So selfless was the way she took,
    For these be bitter times. . . .
Poor Sis! Well, there's her copy-book
                        Of childish rhymes.