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Poem	I often wonder how Life clicks because They don't make women now Like Mammy was. When broods of two or three Content most men, How wonderful was she With children ten! Though sixty years have gone, As I look back, I see her rise at dawn, Our boots to black; Pull us from drowsy bed, Wet sponge to pass, And speed us porridge fed To morning class. Our duds to make and mend, Far into night, O'er needle she would spend By bleary light. Yet as her head drooped low, With withered hair, It seemed the candle glow Made halo there. And so with silvered pow I sigh because They don't make women now Like Mammy was.
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