-THE POETS ARE ALWAYS PRESENT-
EFFIE WALLER SMITH
POEMS
The Collected Works
​
This anthology of the poetry of a noted Afro-American poetess, whose work was printed in books and magazines at the turn of the 20th century, also provides insights into the life and experiences of a black woman of this era. Her published output consisted of three volumes of poetry: Songs Of the Month (1904), Rhymes From the Cumberland (1904), and Rosemary and Pansies (1909). Her poetry also appeared in the publication, Harper's Weekly, as well as in various regional newspapers.
Preparation
Apple Sauce and Chicken Fried
I have no time for those things now,' we say;
"But in the future just a little way,
No longer by this ceaseless toil oppressed,
I shall have leisure then for thought and rest.
When I the debts upon my land have paid,
Or on foundations firm my business laid,
I shall take time for discourse long and sweet
With those beloved who round my hearthstone meet;
I shall take time on mornings still and cool
To seek the freshness dim of wood and pool,
Where, calmed and hallowed by great Nature's peace,
My life from its hot cares shall find release;
I shall take time to think on destiny,
Of what I was and am and yet shall be,
Till in the hush my soul may nearer prove
To that great Soul in whom we live and move.
All this I shall do sometime but not now -
The press of business cares will not allow."
And thus our life glides on year after year;
The promised leisure never comes more near.
Perhaps the aim on which we placed our mind
Is high, and its attainment slow to find;
Or if we reach the mark that we have set,
We still would seek another, farther yet.
Thus all our youth, our strength, our time go past
Till death upon the threshold stands at last,
And back unto our Maker we must give
The life we spent preparing well to live.
You may talk about the knowledge
Which our farmers' girls have gained
From cooking-schools and cook-books,
(Where all modern cooks are trained):
But I would rather know just how,
(Though vainly I have tried)
To prepare, as mother used to,
Apple sauce and chicken fried.
Our modern cooks know how to fix
Their dainty dishes rare,
But, friend, just let me tell you what!-
None of them can compare
With what my mother used to fix,
And for which I've often cried,
When I was but a little tot,-
Apple sauce and chicken fried.
Chicken a la Française,
And also fricassee,
Served with some new fangled sauce
Is plenty good for me,
Till I get to thinking of the home
Where once I used to 'bide,
And where I used to eat,- um, my!
Apple sauce and chicken fried.
We always had it once a week,
Sometimes we had it twice;
And I have even known the time
When we have had it thrice.
Our good, yet jolly pastor,
During his circuit's ride
With us once each week gave grateful thanks
For apple sauce and chicken fried.
Why, it seems like I can smell it,
And even taste it, too,
And see it with my natural eyes,
Though of course it can't be true;
And it seems like I'm a child again,
Standing by mother's side,
Pulling at her dress and asking
For apple sauce and chicken fried.
