Lesley Gordon

Angeline Friday

Angeline Friday
Would never be tidy,
She'd fling all her clothes on the floor ;
And on going to bed,
I once heard it said,
Her shoes would fly out of the door.

Though properly taught
To do all that she ought,
"Can't be bothered!" young ANGIE would say:
When rebuked by her nurse
She grew steadily worse
Till her mother was haggard and grey.

But one dreadful night,
By the moon's ashy light,
Her petticoat rose from the floor ;
And said with a stammer—
Regardless of grammar—
"I'm n-not going to stand it n-no more!"

"Allow us to speak,"
Cried her shoes with a creak,
"Though in truth we are almost afraid to—
Won't try to be tidy,
It's just about time she was made to!"
"Of course you know best,"
Cried her knickers and vest,
"It would be a good plan though," they said,
" If before it grows light
We walk out in the night
Leaving ANGELINE FRIDAY in bed!"

So in separate pieces
They shook out their creases,
The socks clambered into the shoes,
Then they walked arm-in-arm,
Without raising alarm,
Down the shadowy drive of "The Yews."

When ANGELINE woke
She thought it a joke
Till her mother appeared the next morning:
"If you'd only be tidy,"
Sighed poor Mrs. Friday,
"They'd have never marched off without warning."

"There's nothing," she said,
"But to stay there in bed,
For we folk are respectable farmers,
And what would people say
If they saw you to-day
Walk to school in your third-best pyjamas?"
So all day in bed
ANGIE buried her head
While she whispered, "Alas and alack!
I'll alter completely
And fold them so neatly
If only my clothes will come back."

And though nobody knows,
Still I rather suppose,
When morning creeps under the blind,
That close on her chair,
All folded with care,
A small heap of clothes she will find.

(P.S.—She did.)
The end