FAMILY HISTORY: POETRY Collection written by Elsie Strawn ARMSTRONG
  
  File contributed for use in USGenWeb Archives by: Les Howard Strawn
  
  Copyright 2006.  All rights reserved.
  http://www.usgwarchives.net/copyright.htm
  http://www.usgwarchives.net/pa/somerset/
  ________________________________________________
  
  
  Lines written for the inspection of my oldest son.  After expecting him daily 
  for some time to take me home with him, I broke out in the following strain.
  
  Most earnestly I covet
      A place in they affection;
  I see no cause nor reason
      Why there should be objection.
  
  It is the duty of the young
      To take care of the old,
  As 'twas my duty and my pleasure
      Thee to my bosom to fold.
  
  Most carefully I tended thee
      In these small, weak arms,
  And I faithfully defended thee,
      To keep thee from all harm.
  
  And with all a mother's fondness
      To my bosom I did press thee,
  And in ecstasy of joy
      I did kiss thee and caress thee.
  
  And, when thou wast but six,
      Or but seven years of age,
  One evening took to crying
      And it did all my powers engage
  
  To try to know what ailed thee,
      And what would give thee ease;
  I held thee in one arm
      And made different kinds of teas.
  
  But, Oh! It was in vain,
      The child I could not cure;
  And his heartrending screams
      I was obliged then to endure.
  
  He would cry four or five hours,
      One evening after another;
  Oh! It was distressing
      To a young, inexperienced mother.
  
  After four or five days' crying,
      When he would break out,
  (Each day I feared his dying,)
  
      In great blisters all about.
  
  He would scream till he was purple
      And spotted in the face,
  His visage so distorted
      I could scarce a feature trace.
  
  In the palms of his hands
      And the soles of his feet,
  Every month for one long year,
      His affliction did repeat.
  
  Those spells came on still later
      And later in the day,
  Till passed through the night
      And commenced on next day.
  
  Oft times when warm in bed,
      When he would begin to kick
  I knew that I must leave the room,
      Our child was taken sick.
  
  When he would begin to cry
      And clinch the breast and clothes,
  I had to leave the room
      That his father might repose.
  
  And if I stopped in the parlor,
      Such scolding I must bear,
  Till I went off to the kitchen
      Where his child he could not hear.
  
  And away in that lone kitchen,
      Where it was so cold and drear,
  There in the deepest anguish
      We shed the bitter tear.
  
  Sometimes he would be better,
      I would think it was all o'er,
  And again he'd take to screaming,
      And he'd suffer as before.
  
  In the order of kind Providence
      A lady once stepped in,
  When she saw our sad affliction
      To help she did begin.
  
  With pleasant, soothing words
      She kindly took my son,
  And pressed him to her bosom,
      And to walk the house begun.
  
  She laid him on her soft breast,
      With her apron him did cover,
  With one hand she did support him,
      And the other she laid over.
  
  With his head upon her shoulder
      She walked the house and sung,
  Till at length his screaming
      Seemed to die upon his tongue.
  
  Her soft, melodious voice,
      So soothing and so cheering,
  He seemed to stop his crying
      For the music he was hearing.
  
  And after he stopped crying,
      Then he did fall asleep,
  And then I was very glad,
      And I did cease to weep.
  
  When I came to Ohio,
      I brought him as best I could,
  In my arms, across my stomach,
      For lay at my breast, he would.
  
  I was advised to have him bled,
      And soon I had it done,
  And that almost immediately
      Did cure my little son.
  
  Then he soon went on all fours,
      And he could go all around;
  And he loved the mud and water,
      And trouble, then I found.
  
  For when we lived in camp,
      And had no way to keep him in.
  And the first thing I would know,
      He would be in the mud again!
  
  And after three long months had passed,
      A house we did have built,
  Then I could keep in my child
      When the door was but a quilt.
  
  But after we got a door,
      And he would see it opening,
  He hastily made for it,
      He seemed to be for loping.
  
          CHAPTER SECOND
  
  When thou didst first begin to travel
      And to totter round,
  Often, very often,
      Thou didst totter down.
  
  When I sprung to they assistance,
      And snatched thee to my face,
  To comfort and to cheer thee,
      And kiss the aching place.
  
  When thou didst first begin to clamber
      Down, out of the front door,
  I found it worse to tend thee
      Than it had been before.
  
  And often I did follow thee,
      Fast as my feet could go,
  To save thy life from downing
      Down in the spring below.
  
  One time I did but save thee
      And timely snatch thee out,
  And the water from thy nose
      And mouth did freely spout.
  
  I took thee to the house
      And wiped thy face and hair,
  And stripped thee off and dried thee,
      And warmed thee by the fire.
  
  When he did change his course,
      And went toward the West,
  He would get upon the cow path
      And then he'd run his best.
  
  Sometimes he'd get away
      'Round the hill, out of sight
  And when he'd see me coming
      He would run with all his might.
  
  And when he'd see me coming
      He would run and laugh and fall,
  And then I could the sooner
      The little man o'er-haul.
  
  And when I could snatch him,
      Then I would scarcely know
  Whether to whip or kiss him,
      Which was the best for me to do.
  
  I did greatly fear wild beasts
      Or snakes would him destroy,
  Or he'd be lost in the wild woods,
      And those fears did me annoy.
  
  Among the troubles and mishaps
      That happened to that son,
  Now before I close
      I will mention only one.
  
          CHAPTER THIRD
  
  Before that he was seven,
      One morning sent for tow,
  And instead of coming home,
      Through the wild woods he did go.
  
  After about an hour
      I went for him to look,
  I found he'd taken a cow path
      And gone across the brook.
  
  For there I saw his track
      In the mud beside the run,
  Then I knew that he was lost;
      O, My precious little son.
  
  Then I ran along the path
      Till it grew very dim,
  Then I ran across the woods
      To get help to hunt for him.
  
  Then I took a horse
      And rode all day alone,
  Through the woods, a crying
      And calling for my son.
  
  There were twenty-five or thirty
      With bells and horns and guns,
  A hunting and a striving
      To find my little son.
  
  He wandered through the woods
      And over the Welsh hills,
  More than seven miles,
      And waded through the rills.
  
  When at Brush Fork of Licking,
      He down the stream did go,
  Away to Mr. Evans',
      Still carrying his tow.
  
  He said, "Come to the house,
      You must have something to eat!"
  And they gave him his dinner,
      And to him it was a treat.
  
  He said, "Go catch that horse,"
      He spoke to his little son,
  "And take this boy to Thomas",
      Now, both of you get on."
  
  When they came to Mrs. Thomas'
      She was surprised to see my boy,
  When he told her where he'd been
      The tale, did her annoy.
  
  She said, "Go catch that trusty horse,
      Be quick, my little man,
  And take him to his mother's
      As soon as e'er you can."
  
  When they came to the mill
      They could not urge him farther,
  He had been used to stopping there,
      And stop he would much rather.
  
  He said, "I know now where I am,
      And home I now can go,"
  And so, he started on,
      Still carrying his tow.
  
  My friend, Priscilla Coons,
      When she saw him on his way,
  Said, "That dear, lost little boy,
      Go home with him now, I may.
  
  The child was so bewildered,
      Within a quarter of a mile from home,
  He'd have gone up the state road
      If she had not with him come.
  
  Then I was overjoyed,
      But could not forbear to weep,
  I was so much excited,
      My sorrow had been so deep.
  
  Next day I could not weave,
      My heart it was so sore,
  Commenced, but found I was too weak,
      That day would weave no more.
  
  I thought I'd piece a quilt,
      Handwork I could not do,
  That would employ my mind
      And my hands keep busy too!