Twelve Ride to Church

The white-top buggy on each Sabbath day

Would take its journey to the little church

With twelve of us clad in our best array--

Four to a seat--At every little lurch

We children bounced and laughed in quiet glee.

We drove two miles through dusty country lanes

With silent friendly hills for company.

Our father, smiling proudly, held the reins

And called his kind "Giddap" to Nell and King.

Reaching, we plucked wild roses growing there,

Enjoyed the season's varied offering,

Our hearts attuned into the day of prayer.

That loved old white-top is again reborn

Within our aging hearts each Sabbath morn.

The Improvement Era