Mother’s Glasses
I’ve told about the times that Ma can’t find
her pocketbook,
And how we have to hustle round for it to help
her look,
But there’s another care we know that often
comes our way,
I guess it happens easily a dozen times a day.
It starts when first the postman through the
door a letter passes,
And Ma says: “Goodness gracious me! Wherever
are my glasses?”
We hunt ’em on the mantelpiece an’ by the
kitchen sink,
Until Ma says: “Now, children, stop, an’ give
me time to think
Just when it was I used ’em last an’ just
exactly where.
Yes, now I know—the dining room. I’m sure
you’ll find ’em there.”
We even look behind the clock, we busy boys
an’ lasses,
Until somebody runs across Ma’s missing pair of
glasses.
We’ve found ’em in the Bible, an’ we’ve found
’em in the flour,
We’ve found ’em in the sugar bowl, an’ once
we looked an hour
Before we came across ’em in the padding of
her chair;
An’ many a time we’ve found ’em in the topknot
of her hair.
It’s a search that ruins order an’ the home
completely wrecks,
For there’s no place where you may not find
poor Ma’s elusive specs.
But we’re mighty glad, I tell you, that the
duty’s ours to do,
An’ we hope to hunt those glasses till our time
of life is through;
It’s a little bit of service that is joyous in its
thrill,
It’s a task that calls us daily an’ we hope it
always will.
Rich or poor, the saddest mortals of all the
joyless masses
Are the ones who have no mother dear to lose
her reading glasses.