Grandmother, on a winter's day, milked the cows and fed them hay, slopped the hogs, saddled the mule, then got the children off to school, did a washing, mopped the floors, washed the windows, did some chores; cooked a dish of home-dried fruit, and pressed her husband's Sunday suit.
Swept the parlor, made the bed, baked a dozen loaves of bread, split some firewood, and then lugged in enough to fill the kitchen bin; cleaned the lamps and put in oil, stewed some apples she thought would spoil; churned the butter, baked a cake, then exclaimed, "For heaven's sake, the calves have got out of the pen!" — went out and chased them in again.
Gathered the eggs and locked the stable, back to the house to set the table, cooked a supper that was delicious, and afterward washed all the dishes, fed the cat and sprinkled the clothes, mended a basketful of hose; then opened the organ and began to play, "When You Come to the End of a Perfect Day."
Author Unknown
(Art: @imperivmrenaissance)
