It hangs there on the kitchen wall,
A tattered apron, that is all,
But there is something I recall,
The love when Mother wore it.
From early morn 'till setting sun,
Her work, it seems, was never done,
Us children kept her on the run,
That apron, I adore it.
It tells of when I tried to flee,
When chased by angry bumble bees,
And...
Continue reading...