Original Voices from the Past

“The Dinner Hour”

Between the dark and the daylight
  When the night is beginning to lower,
Comes a pause in the day’s occupation
  That is known as the dinner hour.

I hear in the chamber above me
 The patter of little feet,
The sound of a door that is opened,
 And yells not soft nor sweet.

The boys in the entry are pounding
 On the frail and battered door;
They are waiting to hear the bell ring,
 And then they pound some more.

A clang resounds in the hallway,
 And I know by the welcome sound
That the soup is dished and cooling
 And fixed to be passed around.

A sudden rush from the stairway
 At the sound of the usual call;
By two doors left unguarded
 They enter the dining hall.

A silence, and then the blessing;
 Yet I know by the eager glance
That they will talk like lightning
 As soon as they get a chance.

They bring the soup and the crackers,
 The meat, potatoes and such,
While last and least is the pudding,
 That does not amount to much.

And after the others have eaten,
 The waiters they do their best,
Singing songs not found in the hymn books,
 Till—wow! how I long for rest.