The Home Circle by Mary J. Porter

Pacific Seventh-day Adventist Publishing Association · Oakland, California · Jan 16, 1879

The Home Circle.

By Mary J. Porter

Poor Mrs. Jenkins.

My friend, Mrs. Jenkins, who lives in this city, Considers herself a fit object of pity; She has causes for sorrow so many and great, That her business in life is her woes to relate.

She dwells in a mansion both stately and fine, On dantiest food is accustomed to dine; But then, as she says, the house loads her with cares, And she really is weary of climbing the stairs.

Besides, she must think every day what to eat, And the servants half kill her—'Twould be quite a treat To be rid of their clamor, if only a day— To wait on herself were the easiest way.

Then—the climate—'Tis wearing, we all must confess; In the morning one never can know how to dress; Though bright be the sunshine, perhaps before noon, We'll discover the signs of a storm, coming soon.

And speaking of dressing, what trouble it brings! The bird in the cage—that now cheerily sings— Would silence his song, if oppressed with dolor Of changing his feathers and choosing their color.

And then, too, the children, of course, must be taught' And masters for them must be carefully sought; And dear Mr. Jenkins has so much to do— That he says to his wife, "I will leave this to you."

'Tis a terrible burden—this training the boys— They are so full of pranks, and they make constant noise; And their sister is frail—a mere sensitive plant— She's become such a charge that she stays with her aunt.

Moreover, our town has defects, very many; And society's poor, if indeed there is any; Existence is here disagreeable, very— To go to New York one must needs cross the ferry!

And then, in the church Mrs. Jenkins attends, She has not, in fact, a half dozen friends: She does not, 'tis true, yield to social demands; But her time is quite occupied—also her hands.

Would you learn any more of this troubled one's grief? I must beg you to visit her—yet life is brief; And days, even weeks, insufficient to hear The moans and laments that shall fall on your ear. —Mary J. Porter.