Classic Poem

She stood at the ironing board pressing a shirt
Of white calico. " This shirt is for George, "
She said. " He is going to town Sunday
To Nance Wilson's party; he couldn't go
Until I made this shirt; he never had
A white one before, we have been so poor. "

I spoke sharply: " Nance Wilson is a vain woman —
Not bad that I know of, but silly.
Do you let your husband go there alone,
And iron his shirts to make him look decent
In her eyes? "

" I dunno, " she said, pausing
To turn the shirt bosom on the wide board,
" Why I shouldn't; I can't leave the children.
She has fine silk dresses, and soft carpets
In her house. George ain't had much of a chance
I thought it might perk him up to go there.
You know men have a hankering somehow
For women like Nance; she can talk just grand,
George says, about what she's seen in New York.
He gets ideas of stepping up higher
In the world from her. What could I teach him?
I can't read or write. Children must look up
To their father; maybe Nance will make him
Feel he ought to get a job and go to work.
I've seen there's something in women like her
(I suppose it's their clothes and their fixings
And their being free to go out in the world)
That will make a man work and make something
Out of himself. "

" But, " I clung to my chiding,
" Don't you care about it? George is your husband.
Aren't you jealous about his going there? "

She slipped the shirt from the board carefully
And hung it on a chair to dry in the sun,
And answered: " Sometimes it went against me
To do what I had to do for him;
I don't think of myself now; I don't matter.
He never had a mother to do for him.
You are not married; your husband is a child
After you've been married years as I have.
If he wants to go, why, I must help him
And iron his shirt; he's grateful to me. "