Twelve Ride to Church
By Mabel Law Atkinson
The whitetop 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 with quiet glee.
We rode two miles through dusty country lanes
With silent, friendly hills for company.
Our father, proudly smiling, held the reins
And called his kind “Giddap” to Nell and King.
We, reaching, plucked wild roses growing there,
Enjoyed the season’s varied offering,
Our souls attuned unto the day of prayer.
That loved old buggy is again reborn
Within our aging hearts each Sabbath morn.