History of Michigan, / by Charles Moore. [Vol. 3]

HISTORY OF MICHIGAN

1417

After best greeting to children and wife:
"Heart of his heart, and the life of his life,"
I read from the paper wrinkled and brown:
"We are here for the winter in Morristown,
And a sorry sight are our men today,
In tatters and rags with no signs of pay.
As we marched to camp, if a man looked back,
By the dropping blood he could trace our track;
For scarcely a man has a decent shoe,
And there's not a stocking the army through;
So send us stockings as quick as you can,
My company needs them, every man,
And every man is a neighbor's lad;
Tell this to their mothers; They need them bad."
Then, if never before, beat Rhoda's heart,
'Twas time to be doing a woman's part.
She turned to her daughters, Hannah and Bet,
"Girls, each on your needles a stocking set,
Get my cloak and hood; as for you, son Dan,
Yoke up the steers just as quick as you can;
Put a chair in the wagon, as you're alive;
I will sit and knit, while you go and drive."
They started at once on Whippany road,
She knitting away while he held the goad.
At Whippany village she stopped to call
On the sisters Prudence and Mary Ball.
She would not go in, she sat in her chair,
And read to the girls her letter from there.
That was enough, for their brothers three
Were in Lieutenant Farrand's company.
Then on Rhoda went, stopping here and there
To rouse the neighbors from her old chair.
Still while she was riding her fingers flew,
And minute by minute the stocking grew.
Across the country, so withered and brown,
They drove till they came to Hanover town.
There, mellow and rich, lay the Smith's broad lands.
With them she took dinner and warmed her hands.
Next toward Hanover Neck Dan turned the steers,
Where her cousins, the Kitchels, had lived for years.
With the Kitchels she supped, then homeward turned,
While above her the stars like lanterns burned.
And she stepped from her chair, helped by her son,
With her first day's work and her stockings done.
On Rockaway river, so bright and clear,
The brown leaf skims in the fall of the year.
Around through the hills it curves like an arm,
And holds in its clasp more than one bright farm.
Through Rockaway valley next day drove Dan,
Boy though he was, yet he worked like a man.
His mother behind him sat in her chair,
Still knitting, but knitting another pair.
They roused the valley, then drove through the gorge,
And stopped for a minute at Compton's forge.