p. 889 | MY MENDING BASKET by Bessie Chandler

Pacific Press Publishing Company · Oakland, California · Dec 3, 1894

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 20, No. 56.

MY MENDING BASKET.

By Bessie Chandler

It is made of the stoutest of willow; It is deep and capacious and wide; Yet the gulf stream that flows through its borders Seems always to stand at flood tide,

And the garments lie heaped on each other. I look at them often, and sigh, Shall I ever be able to grapple With a pile that has grown two feet high?

There's a top layer, always, of stockings; These arrive and depart every day; And the things that are playing "button, button," Also leave without any delay.

But, ah, underneath there are strata Buried deep as the earth's eocene, Things put there the first of the autumn, Still there when the trees are grown green!

There are things to be ripped and made over; There are things that gave out in their prime; There are intricate tasks, all awaiting One magical hour of "spare time."

Will it come? Shall I ever possess it? I start with fresh hope every day. Like a will-o'-the-wisp it allures me, Like a will-o'-the-wisp fades away.

For the basket has never been empty, During all of its burdened career, But once, for a few fleeting moments, When the baby upset it last year. —Bessie Chandler.