You'd always find her busy 
As she'd flit from room to room, 
And hardly can I picture her 
Without a mop or broom 

She kept the floors so shiny; 
You could almost see your face 
And each and every trinket 
Was dusted in its place 

Though constantly kept toiling 
By the work of each new day 
She still had time to read to us 
When we'd rest from our play 

She still had time to tuck us in 
And hear our childish prayer 
The golden memories of Mother 
Still hover everywhere 
~Ruth H. Underhill 

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