Mrs. Malone

Mrs. Malone 
 
Mrs. Malone
     Lived hard by a wood
All on her lonesome
     As nobody should.
With her crust on a plate
     And her pot on the coal
And none but herself
     To converse with, poor soul.
In a shawl and a hood
     She got sticks out-o’-door,
On a bit of old sacking
     She slept on the floor,
And nobody, nobody
     Asked how she fared
Or knew how she managed,
     For nobody cared.
Why make a pother
     About an old crone?
What for should they bother
     With Mrs. Malone?
 
One Monday in winter
     With snow on the ground
So thick that a footstep
     Fell without sound,
She heard a faint frostbitten
     Peck on the pane
And went to the window
     To listen again.
There sat a cock-sparrow
     Bedraggled and weak,
With half-open eyelid
     And ice on his beak.
She threw up the sash
     And she took the bird in,
And mumbled and fumbled it
     Under her chin.
’Ye’re all of a smother,
     Ye’re fair overblown!
I’ve room fer another,’
     Said Mrs. Malone.
 
Come Tuesday while eating
     Her dry morning slice
With the sparrow a-picking
      (‘Ain’t company nice!’)
She heard on her doorpost
     A curious scratch,
And there was a cat
     With its claw on the latch.
It was hungry and thirsty
     And thin as a lath,
It mewed and it mowed
     On the slithery path.
She threw the door open
     And warmed up some pap,
And huddled and cuddled it
     In her old lap.
‘There, there, little brother,
     Ye poor skin-an’-bone,
There’s room fer another,’
     Said Mrs. Malone.
 
Come Wednesday while all of them
     Crouched on the mat
With a crumb for the sparrow,
     A sip for the cat,
There was wailing and whining
     Outside in the wood,
And there sat a vixen
     With six of her brood.
She was haggard and ragged
     And worn to a shred,
And her half-dozen babies
     Were only half-fed,
But Mrs. Malone, crying
      ‘My! ain’t they sweet!’
Happed them and lapped them
     And gave them to eat.
‘You warm yerself, mother,
     Ye’re cold as a stone!
There’s room fer another,’
     Said Mrs. Malone.
 
Come Thursday a donkey
     Stepped in off the road
With sores on his withers
     From bearing a load.
Come Friday when icicles
     Pierced the white air
Down from the mountainside
     Lumbered a bear.
For each she had something,
     If little, to give -
‘Lord knows, the poor critters
     Must all of ’em live.’
She gave them her sacking,
     Her hood and her shawl,
Her loaf and her teapot -
     She gave them her all.
‘What with one thing and t’other
     Me fambily’s grown,
And there’s room fer another,’
     Said Mrs. Malone.
 
Come Saturday evening
     When time was to sup
Mrs. Malone
     Had forgot to sit up.
The cat said meeow,
     And the sparrow said peep,
The vixen, she’s sleeping,
     The bear, let her sleep.
On the back of the donkey
     They bore her away,
Through trees and up mountains
     Beyond night and day,
Till come Sunday morning
     They brought her in state
Through the last cloudbank
     As far as the Gate.
‘Who is it,’ asked Peter,
      ‘You have with you there?’
And donkey and sparrow,
     Cat, vixen, and bear
 
Exclaimed, ‘Do you tell us
     Up here she’s unknown?
It’s our mother, God bless us!
     It’s Mrs. Malone
Whose havings were few
     And whose holding was small
And whose heart was so big
     It had room for us all.’
Then Mrs. Malone
     Of a sudden awoke,
She rubbed her two eyeballs
     And anxiously spoke:
‘Where am I, to goodness,
     And what do I see?
My dears, let’s turn back,
     This ain’t no place fer me!’
But Peter said, ‘Mother
     Go in to the Throne.
There’s room for another
     One, Mrs. Malone.’
 
By Eleanor Farjeon (1881 - 1965)