Transcribed and Donated by Leslie Howard Strawn
The following is a recital on the subject of being robbed five times.
I fondly cherished social joys
And in my children took delight
I loved to see those cheerful boys
All pleasantly step in at night.
My sleep was sound, I felt secure,
While those I loved were being near,
I felt protected all the while
When my sons did round me smile.
The toil was bliss and care was sweet
When happy hearts beat near my own,
But now I scarce a son can meet,
And I’m alone, yes, all alone.
No morning sun illumes my way,
No evening star illumes my track,
But phantoms in my pathway stay,
To fright coming pleasures back.
If I could see, I would not fear,
But almost blind and hard to hear,
Sometimes I feel as if neglected,
And O, how sad and unprotected!
When in the night I hear a noise,
It startles and it annoys me,
For thieves and robbers round me roam,
And take my clothing from my home.
They stole my gold watch chain
And silk dresses,
From my trunk
And from my presses.
My satin dress
And lots of clothes,
Silk gloves and gaiters,
And my hose.
Gold pen and collar,
Fringe and laces,
My spectacles,
Likewise, their cases.
My black silk scarf
Trimmed with silk lace,
Silk velvet ribbon,
In good taste.
And my black veil,
‘Twas rich silk lace,
And given to me-
What a hard case.
That I should lose
So fine a present,
Such things to me
Are quite unpleasant.
My finest and best sheets
And tape trimmed pillowcases,
My needle worked nice nightcaps,
Trimmed with fancy laces.
My Irish linen tablecloths,
My India rubber shoes,
My new diaper towels,
Those things I need to use.
Took every glove I had,
Kid, cotton and lisle thread
My fancy quilts, new counterpanes,
The coverings of my bed.
My finest, best made nightgowns,
And my best skirts and tidies,
The best of all I had
Still seemed to suit their ideas.
My woolen gloves and mittens,
And my best underclothes,
Likewise my silver thimble
That lay upon my stand.
Off of my parlor table
They stole my nice new books,
My dress and my skirts
That hung in the room on hooks.
My knives and forks
And spoons and dishes,
Whate’er they saw
That met their wishes.
My buckets and tin pails,
Likewise my chairs and stools,
My augurs and my chisels,
And different kinds of tools.
Stole my hammers and my hatchet,
Ax and spade and shovel,
Likewise my hoe and rake
I need to make my garden level.
They yearly rob my garden
And also steal my currants,
And have broken off my lock,
And also robbed my barn.
Whate’er they found my house about
They pilfered and they carried out,
They stole my cobs, likewise my coal,
And used me badly on the whole.
I made myself some under sleeves,
They were all I ever had,
And them they had to steal
And that was rather bad.
***
My pocket book they robbed,
From one time to another,
But last Saturday night the
Boldest and meanest of all other.
On Saturday, two young ladies,
Each scarcely twenty-five,
And blithe and gay and pleasant
As any now alive.
Made me their usual visit,
Which was nearly every day,
And stayed till after night
Before they went away.
When it was growing dark
One said, “Come, let’s go home,”
The other was not willing,
Her errand was not done.
She expressed an anxious wish
To see me safe in bed,
“Not while I have company,
I’d rather not,” I said.
She seemed to be so social,
So pleasant and so kind,
Little did I think there was
Robbery in her mind.
And still she kept insisting,
And urging me so,
That, unfortunately, for me,
With reluctance, said , “I’ll go.”
Soon as I gave consent,
To undressing me, they went,
They undressed me in a flirt
But I thought they meant no hurt.
And for fear they’d tear my dress
I said, “Now stop, O, stay,
Till I take off my pockets
And get them out of the way.”
So I took off my pockets
And threw them at my bed’s head,
And in the shortest order
They covered my in bed.
In the act of going to bed
I was so badly hurried,
I never thought of pockets,
Nor about them worried.
One sat upon my bedside
With her hand upon my arm,
The other at the head,
And I thought she meant no harm.
She made excuses, out
In the next room she walked about,
And there gathered up her load,
To be ready for the road.
Stole my Sunday pocket handkerchief,
Out of my upper drawer,
My cake of maple sugar
From within my cupboard door.
Likewise a pound of starch
That in the cupboard lay,
She gathered all those things
Before she went away.
And again sat by my head
With her arm upon my bed,
And I knew that she was fumbling
Between my pillow and bed’s head.
No doubt but she was fixing
And rolled up my pockets then,
And took her load away
Before the clock struck ten.
Then in her loving kindness
Not quite as sweet as honey,
Gave me a Judas Kiss
And carried off my money.
Between the hours of twelve and one,
At that late hour of night,
Came back, shoved up my window,
And the noise did me affright.
Being wakened out of sleep
I said, “What’s that? Who’s there?
Who is at my window,
And what is your errand there?”
Then I thought of my pockets,
And for them I grabbed around,
But my pockets were not there,
They were not to be found.
I said, “Now nail down the window,
With the hammer, drive the nail,
If they try to shove it up
In that they may fail.”
And when that work was done
I said, “Now go back to bed
And try to go to sleep,
And I will, too.” I said.
But that old calfskin pocket book
I have carried thirty years,
Sometimes contained some money,
But now it’s all gone, clear.
But, O, the thieves and robber,
‘Tis hard to endure,
But I’ll put my trust in God,
For I know my bread is sure.
Likewise about those papers,
Them I wish I had,
Those notes and those receipts
For me to lose now, would be bad.
But I think that I shall find them,
They will do them no good,
Leave them about the yard
I think they surely would
So I composed myself to sleep,
And a pleasant nap I had,
But Betsey slept no more,
She said she felt so bad.
Next morning, very early
She went out to see
What traces of the thief
Or their footsteps there might be.
Put there fell a heavy rain
Between that time and day,
And that effaced their footsteps
And washed them all away.
My pockets on the rose bush,
My papers strewed around,
And in a puddle of water
My pocket book was found.
But the money all was gone
Except a little mite,
In one corner of the pocket book,
And it was out of sight.
Well now, what shall I do?
The case looks hard to say,
I’d better take what’s left,
And try to go away.
And try to gather up
What little yet remains,
And put it on a dray
And take it to the train.
And then I hardly know
What way I’d better go.
Whether to go East or West,
Which way would be the best?
I hardly can
Make up my mind,
Which way I feel
The most inclined.
Why should I longer stay
Where hopes are fading one by one,
No morning sun illumes my way,
And I’m alone, yes, all alone.
|
DECEMBER 24, 1860
Twenty-fourth day of December,
The weather very cold,
And I am all-alone
And seventy-one years old.
And I am almost blind
And my eyes are very sore,
Seventy-one years old
And exactly one month more.
These cold December mornings,
Am starting my fire,
I am weak and feeble,
And would much rather hire.
DECEMBER 29th
But now my prospect’s changed,
A family has come in,
Helpful, kind and pleasant
Thus far to me have been.
DECEMBER 31st
The weather most terrific cold,
But find myself in care,
Attentive, kind and pleasant,
Still to me they are.
She still comes in and starts my fire,
And friendly bakes my pies,
She threads my needles, helps me on,
And kindly picks my eyes.
Her husband, he is gone,
He went to see his mother,
She has been very sick,
Went with his younger brother.
And she is here alone
With her little son and daughter,
Her son is large enough
To bring her in some water.
And she’s a sweet young woman,
Pleasant, bright and gay,
You will not find a handsomer,
In a long summer’s day.
|