The Hands that Can Make Good Bread.
By Wm. T. Hornaday
You may talk to me of accomplished girls
With “hands as white as the lily;”
And of melting blue eyes, and auburn curls,
But I think that decidedly silly,
But when any one mentions a lady’s hands,
The question pops into my head,
Not of their beauty and golden bands,
But, Can they make good bread? There are hands that are skillful with pencil and brush,
And can paint a landscape or face;
That can write sweet notes, and color a blush,
With the greatest beauty and grace,
Perhaps you will call me a gluttonous churl,
But, for one, I prefer instead,
A matter-of-fact and sensible girl,
With hands that can make good bread. There are hands that can play the piano with ease,
And finger the lively guitar;
Can crochet and embroider, and all such as these—
More worthless than useful by far.
These are all very pleasing to ear and to eye,
But when you come to be fed,
You will find no hands beneath the sky
Like those that can make good bread.
—Wm. T. Hornaday.