THE DISPUTE OF THE SEVEN DAYS.
Once on a time the days of the week
Quarrelled and made bad weather.
The point was which of the seven was best;
So they all disputed together.
And Monday said, “I wash the clothes”;
And Tuesday said, “I air 'em”;
And Wednesday said, “I iron the shirts”;
And Thursday said, “I wear 'em.”
And Friday, “I'm the day for fish”;
And Saturday, “Children love me”;
And Sunday, “I am the Sabbath day,
I'm sure there are none above me.”
One said, “I am the fittest for work”;
And one, “I am fittest for leisure.”
Another, “I'm best for prayer and praise”;
And another, “I'm best for pleasure.”
Arguing thus, they flapped their wings,
And puffed up every feather;
They blew and rained and snowed and hailed:
There never was seen such weather.
Old Father Time was passing by,
And heard the hurly-burly.
Said he, “Here 's something going wrong;
It 's well I was up so early.
“These children of mine have lost their wits
And seem to be all non compos.
I never knew them to gabble thus.
Hollo there!—stop that rumpus!
“I should think you a flock of angry geese,
To hear your screaming and bawling.
Indeed, it would seem by the way it snows,
Goose-feathers are certainly falling.
“You, Sunday, sir, with your starched cravat,
Black coat, and church-veneering,—
Tell me the cause of this angry spat;
Speak loud,—I am hard of hearing.
“You are the foremost talker here;
The wisest sure you should be.
I little thought such a deuce of a row
As you are all making, could be.”
Then Sunday said, “Good Father Time,
The case is clear as noonday;
For ever since the world was made,
The Lord's day has been Sunday.
“The church—” Here Monday started up:
“The folks are glad when you leave 'em;
They all want me to give 'em their work,
And the pleasures of which you bereave 'em.”
But Tuesday said, “I finish your chores,
And do them as fine as a fiddle.”
And Wednesday, “I am the best of you all
Because I stand in the middle.”
And Thursday, Friday, Saturday, each
Said things that I can't remember.
And so they might have argued their case
From March until December.
But Father Tempus cut them short:
“My children, why this pother?
There is no best, there is no worst;
One day 's just like another.
“To God's great eye all shine alike
As in their primal beauty.
That day is best whose deeds are best;
That worst that fails in duty.
“Where Justice lights the passing hours,
Where Love is wise and tender,
There beams the radiance of the skies,
There shines a day of splendor.”
