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     Our hostess best knew
What her hands found to do,
     Asked no questions, but did it.

Here the lesson of work,
     Which so many folks shirk,
Is so plain all may learn it;
     Each brick in this dwelling,
Each timber is telling,
     If you want a home, Earn it.

The question of labor
     Is solved by our neighbor,
The old riddle guessed out:
     The wisdom sore needed,
The truth long unheeded,
     Her flat-iron's pressed out!

Thanks, then, to Kate Choate!
     Let the idle take note
What their fingers were made for;
     She, cheerful and jolly,
Worked on late and early,
     And bought—what she paid for!

Never vainly repining,
     Nor begging, nor whining;
The morning-star twinkles
     On no heart that's lighter
As she makes the world whiter
     And smoothes out its wrinkles.

So, long life to Kate!
     May her heirs have to wait
Till they're gray in attendance;
     And her flat-iron press on,
Still teaching its lesson
     Of brave independence!

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