“OH these pancakes are sublime,” brightly cries Josiah Jakes; “mother,
in the olden time, thought that she could fashion cakes; she was always
getting praise, and deserved it, I maintain; but she, in her palmy days,
couldn’t touch you, Sarah Jane. Oh, the king upon his throne for such
fodder surely aches; you are in a class alone, when it comes to griddle
cakes.” Then upon his shining dome he adjusts his lid and goes, and his
wife remains at home, making pies and things like those. She is stewing
luscious prunes, in her eye a happy tear, and her heart is singing tunes
such as angels like to hear. O’er and o’er she still repeats all the
kindly words he said, as she fixes further treats, pumpkin pie and
gingerbread. When the evening’s growing gray, following the set of sun,
“This has been a perfect day,” murmurs she, her labors done. Perfect
nearly all the days of our loved ones well might be, if with words of
honest praise we were generous and free.
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