PRAYER AND POTATOES
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An old lady sat in her patient armchair,
With sad wrinkled face and dishevelley white hair,
And pale and hunger-worn features.
For days and for weeks her only poor fare
As she had sat there in her faithful armchair,
Had been nothing else but potatoes

Now they were all gone, of bad or of good,
Not one was there left for the old lady’s food,
Of those, her stock of potatoes.
And she sighed and she said, “Now what shall I do?
Or where shall I send? To whom shall I go,
To get me some more potatoes?”

And she thought of the deacon just over the way,
The deacon so ready to worship and pray,
Whose cellar was full of potatoes.
Then she said, “I will send for the deacon to come,
He will not mind much to give to me some
Of such a store of potatoes.”

And the deacon came over as fast as he could,
Thinking to do the old lady some good—
But never thought once of potatoes.
He asked her directly to tell her chief want,
And she, simple soul, expecting a grant,
Immediately answered, “Potatoes.”

But the deacon’s religion did not point that way,
He was much more accustomed to preach and to pray
Than to give of his hoarded potatoes.
Not hearing, of course, what the old lady said,
He stood up to pray, with uncovered bowed head—
But she just thought of potatoes.

He prayed long—for patience, for wisdom, for grace.
But then when he pleaded, “Oh Lord, give her peace,”
She audibly sighed: “Give potatoes.”
At the end of each wordy long prayer that he said,
He heard, or thought that he heard, in its stead,
The same longing plea for potatoes.

The deacon was troubled—knew not what to do— 
‘Twas embarrassing, very, to have her act so
About those so “carnal potatoes.”
He ended his praying and started for home;
As the door closed behind him, he heard a deep groan—
“Oh, give to the hungry, potatoes.”

That groan followed him all the way to his home.
In the midst of the night it still haunted his room—
“Oh, give to the hungry, potatoes.”
He could bear it no longer—so got up and dressed.
From his well-laden cellar he then took, in haste,
A bag of his best new potatoes.

Once more he went out to the lone widow’s hut.
Her poor sleepless eyes she had not even shut,
But sat, longing still, for potatoes
Then, entering in, he put down on the floor
A bushel or more of his own goodly store
Of the very best kind of potatoes.

The poor widow’s heart did then leap up for joy;
And the deacon asked her, “May I now prayer employ?”
“Oh yes!” said the widow, most grateful.
So he then kneeled right down on the neat sanded floor
Where he had just left her his good generous store
Of joyously welcomed potatoes.

Such a very warm prayer as the deacon then prayed
Had never before by his lips been essayed,
As he poured out his heart full and freely,
In praises to God o’er and over again,
To which he heard added, her fervent “Amen”—
Thus voicing her thanks for potatoes.

And do you, who just heard this plain simple tale,
Desire your prayers for the poor to prevail?
Then follow your prayers with your alms and good deeds.
Go search out the poor with their cares and their needs.
Pray much for their welfare and heavenly food,
For wisdom, and guidance—for all these are good—
But do not forget the potatoes!