“Son,” said my mother, When I was knee-high,
“You’ve need of clothes to cover you, And not a rag have I. “There’s nothing in the house To make a boy breeches,Nor shears to cut a cloth with Nor thread to take stitches. “There’s nothing in the house But a loaf-end of rye,And a harp with a woman’s head Nobody will buy,”
 And she began to cry. That was in the early fall. When came the late fall,
“Son,” she said, “the sight of you
 Makes your mother’s blood crawl,— “Little skinny shoulder-blades Sticking through your clothes!And where you’ll get a jacket from God above knows. “It’s lucky for me,