MY CLOTHES-PINS.

My clothes-pins are but kitchen-folk, Unpainted, wooden, small; And for six days in every week Are of no use at all. But when a breezy Monday comes, And all my clothes are out, And want with every idle wind To go and roam about, Oh! if I had no clothes-pins then, What would become of me, When roving towels, mounting shirts, I everywhere should see! "I mean," a flapping sheet begins, "To rise and soar away." "We mean," the clothes-pins answer back, "You on this line shall stay." "Oh, let me!" pleads a handkerchief, "Across the garden fly." "Not while I've power to keep you here," A clothes-pin makes reply. So, fearlessly I hear the wind Across the clothes-yard pass, And shed the apple-blossoms down Upon the flowering grass. The clothes may dance upon the line, And flutter to and fro: My faithful clothes-pins hold them fast, And will not let them go. My clothes-pins are but kitchen-folk, Unpainted, wooden, small; And for six days in every week Are of no use at all. But still, in every listening ear, Their praises I will tell; For all that they profess to do They do, and do it well.