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.
Improvement Era
